The Diary of a Somebody
by Hannah-1888
Summary: Another year in the life of a nobody called Severus Snape, only this time, things are looking up. SS/HG
1. January

**The Diary of a Somebody**

**This is the sequel to 'The Diary of a Nobody'; rating is a T but there is some swearing. **

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Thursday 12th January**

**15:00 — Home.**

So, this is my diary. Again.

Had previously determined not to carry on writing this rot, but, unfortunately, Hermione bought me this new diary for my birthday. Had to pretend I was pleased with it, didn't I? Could hardly have turned my nose up at it. Luckily, she didn't give it to me in the flesh and so my groan of resignation went unheard.

Am going to _have_ to use it—at the very least _appear_ to use it—otherwise she will be offended, and it is far too early on in the game for me to go about offending her, isn't it? Don't want to put my foot in it just yet.

Will leave that until I can be sure I can get away with it—without being chucked, that is.

**17:00**

Didn't even want a birthday present. Am an ungrateful bastard, aren't I? Didn't tell her it was my birthday, very much wanting to keep all reference to my extended years to a minimum. My working philosophy so far has been that if I ignore it enough, maybe I can forget the age-gap… although, I did promise not to let the issue bother me…

In light of that then, shall say… am forty-six, so what? Have felt forty-six all my life, it seems. Not going to make a whit of difference.

There we are—not bothered.

So, I didn't inform her of my day of birth, but events beyond my control rectified that matter.

The day after my birthday, I met her after work for a drink in the Leaky. Everything was going smoothly; the pub was quiet enough; there was conversation to be had; I even felt a modicum of relaxation in the setting, which, actually, is saying a hell of a lot. It was all fine until I happened to glance towards the bar and, in doing so, accidentally made eye contact with none other than Draco fucking Malfoy.

Why did it have to happen? He probably would have ignored me had I not looked at him. As it was, he started poncing towards us wearing that narcissistic look he just can't seem to get off his face.

'Look out,' I murmured and Granger looked behind her, puzzled.

'Good afternoon… Severus… Oh, and… Granger,' he said, and if we hadn't the wit to note the distaste in his expression, his tone of voice left us in no doubt of his disdain.

'Draco.' _How unfortunate to see you._

'Hope you are …well?'

'I'm fine.'

'Can't stop,' he continued, his lip curling slightly. 'Business to attend to.'

As if we were going to ask him to join us anyway.

'Good day, then…' He looked between the two of us with a faint trace of disgust. 'Oh, and Happy Birthday for yesterday.'

Granger flinched visibly, while I glared daggers at Draco's retreating back.

What is it with Purebloods and their ridiculous sense of propriety? Haven't had anything to do with the Malfoys for years now; none of them have ever forgiven me for my 'betrayal' (a fact which I lose precisely no sleep over). But etiquette dictates an acknowledgement, a birthday greeting, and sometimes even Christmas cards, despite our frigid relations.

Anyway, Granger was looking at me, much offended, and said, 'Why didn't you tell me it was your birthday yesterday? I would have bought you a present.'

A present? 'I don't do presents,' I said imperiously. 'I don't _celebrate_ my birthday.'

Should have known that wouldn't be plain enough English for her.

'You still should have said. I would have—'

'A present? Really? What on earth would you have bought for _me_?'

She opened and closed her mouth several times. 'Well, I can't think of anything right now, obviously, but I would have come up with something.'

'Well… now you don't have to.'

She seemed a bit miffed all afternoon. Can't imagine why. It can't have escaped her notice that I am a secretive person. She'd better get used to my reticence _now, _otherwise I foresee major problems in the future.

And so, she took no notice of my protestations, and the next day a bloody owl came bearing this blank volume. The note that accompanied it said, 'I won't even so much as _look_ in the direction of _this_ diary.'

She'd better bloody not! Merlin!

Maybe I should resolve not to write of her at all, on the off-chance I do forget myself and leave this lying about unattended…

Right. What on earth else would I write about, though?

It doesn't matter, anyway. The number of wards I have put on this one means it takes even me a good fifteen minutes before I can open it, not to mention the next ten minutes to undo the camouflaging spell on my writing.

This obfuscating spell is my own creation and am very pleased with it. I tested it out the other day when Granger and I were in the Leaky. When rummaging through my pockets for some money, I casually took out a spare bit of parchment and placed it on the table. It had 'WEASLEY IS A WANKER!' emblazoned upon it, and she looked right at it, but didn't even blink.

Oh, I've learnt my lesson very well indeed.

**17:30**

Am actually a bit glad to have a new diary. Gives me something to do. Funny, really, how much I missed sitting down with a cup of tea (hot toddy) and taking up my quill to transcribe the events of my day.

How sad am I?

**Saturday 14th January**

**16:30 — Home. **

Am going out with Granger tonight. This is only the second time we've been _properly_ out. If that makes sense. The first time we went to the Leaky for dinner and it was all right. Not a complete disaster. At least, I don't think it was. I had to drink a bit to get myself through it without having a delayed panic attack, so it's all a bit blurry now…

(I've never actually had a panic attack in my life, and yet, there have been several times in her company when I have feared one was imminent).

There weren't too many awkward silences. Although, I felt she went on about statute procedure a bit too much for my liking. Not even _she_ can make the running of the Wizengamot interesting to me. Still, not as though I had any better topics of conversation to hand. And I'd rather listen to her talk than not, really. Ha.

The prospect of seeing her fills me with a certain sense of satisfaction and, yes, dread. It's a significant amount of dread, really. Can't help it!

Anyway, tonight she has suggested we go Muggle, on account of the Wizarding population having little or no appreciation for any kind of cuisine beyond pub grub.

_Don't give a flying fig what I'm eating_, I felt like saying. All tastes the bloody same to me when my mind is fully at work trying to ensure I don't make a fool of myself in front of her. Expect the best piece of advice anyone can give is 'be yourself,' but really? Is that really good advice for _me_?

Suppose a change of scene from the Leaky is due, but… at least I was able to draw some comfort from that familiar setting.

**16:45 — Bedroom.**

And what am I supposed to wear?

So, not only do I have to contend with some unfamiliar Muggle establishment that I fear may serve up some inedible, pretentious crap. No, not only that but I have to contend with it whilst stuffed into some ridiculous Muggle garb leaving me uncomfortable and self-conscious.

Lovely.

**16:55 — Wardrobe nigh on demolished. **

Have only white shirts. Hmmm…

If I discount my robes, it appears the only other clothing I own is white shirts. Can't go out in white. White leaves me feeling too exposed; can't wear it unless covered by something else, i.e., billowing black robe.

Besides, what if I drop something down me? Won't be able to just whip out my wand and banish the stain.

Even _I_ have dropped food off my fork at some point. We're none of us perfect, after all.

Going to have to magic a shirt into a different colour…

Hmm…

**17:05**

Grey, maybe?

Bleurgh.

**23:30 — Half cut; survived evening only just. **

Oh dear.

Night _was_ a bit of a disaster this time. There are days when one thing after another just goes wrong, wrong, _wrong_. And today was one of those days.

I Apparated to her house and knocked on the door. So far, so good. Managed to get that bit right, at least.

But… when the door opened and I saw her materialise in front of me, I'm afraid I may possibly have allowed an expression of surprise to take over my face. It was… There was an admittedly small detail about her appearance that I… It was just unexpected, that's all—couldn't stop myself from balking slightly. (I realise now this was wrong of me).

'Something wrong?' she enquired with concern.

'Oh, no, ah… Nice hair…' _Why_ did I say it? _Why_ did I draw attention to it? Should have just pretended it was a shiver from the cold, or… anything except the truth!

Her hand flew self-consciously to touch a length of hair that fell below her shoulders. 'Oh… I've straightened it,' she explained stiffly, and rather superfluously, in my opinion.

_Why_? I wondered. If there's one thing I thought you could always count on in this world, it's that Granger's slightly too voluminous, _curly_ hair will always be just that. Anything else is unnecessarily wrong-footing. Felt like I'd entered some ridiculous parallel universe.

'You don't like it…'

Oh, but it was awkward! I'm still cringing now.

I wondered why on earth we were having that conversation, but then—not my fault if I was expecting Granger, rather than some flat-poker-haired look-alike, to turn up, is it?

'No, no…' I began to say, but she brushed past me, and I'm sure I heard her mutter, 'Don't care what _you_ think, anyway.'

Oh dear. Admittedly, I didn't particularly appreciate the abruptness of the change, but I clearly didn't think her any less… becoming. A rather inadequate choice of words, I suspect, but I am unused to this kind of language, even in my thoughts.

'You look, um, lovely,' I managed to force out, wanting to die after I'd said it.

Bit of a desperate reconciliatory gesture, but it was all that was available to me. Though I'm sure it's every woman's dream to be decreed "um, lovely," but nevertheless, she looked a little less… defensive, anyway, and I breathed again. Am going to keep my mouth shut from now on and always have myself prepared for anything when I see her. Pink hair? Fine. Some ridiculous outfit? My expression won't even flicker.

Hated the restaurant she took us to. Knew it was going to be filled with Muggles, but they were _everywhere_. Think I stood out like a sore thumb. Haven't felt so self-conscious in a long time. Seemed to me we were attracting more covert glances than would have been the case in a Wizarding establishment. Magic folk are rather more blind to odd occurrences than Muggles. And let's face it; Granger and me together is _very_ _odd_ _occurrence_. There is no point pretending otherwise.

The night was further helped into the annals of absurdity when the waiter took my order, and then said, 'And what would your daughter like?'

Fucking great!

'Yes, you dim-witted prick!' I felt like shouting. 'I'm out for a romantic candlelit dinner with my bloody _daughter_!'

Jesus!

I ventured a consternated glance at Granger, wondering if she would be purple with embarrassment, but she was peering casually at the menu. Coolness personified.

'His daughter,' she said thoughtfully, 'will have the carbonara, please.'

The waiter walked off and I stared at her, dumbfounded.

'Look,' she said. 'This probably won't be the only time this'll happen, so we might as well have our fun out of it.'

Eh?

'It's simple; when we leave, you give me a big smacker on the lips and job done; he'll be scarred for life.'

Can you believe that? Because I certainly can't.

She might be able to see the light side of such a faux pas, but I'm not sure I can. Not yet, anyway. Don't know whether to see her flippancy as a positive—take it to mean that she's determined not to let anything get in the way. _Or_ whether to see it as a negative and take it to mean she's not bothered because whatever it is between us is just a bit of… fun.

Besides, all right for her, isn't it? _I__'__ll_ be the one on the receiving end of all the snap judgements and contempt as the man, the older man, in the relationship. And that's without even mentioning my chequered past and present lack of career prospects—or _any_ prospects, for that matter.

Never satisfied am I?

Could have everything I ever wanted in the world and I'd still find fault with something.

I don't know. The night didn't really pick up from there. Think I was a bit standoffish; my mind dwelling on that idiot waiter. In a nutshell, we talked. We ate. We went home.

Wouldn't be surprised if I don't hear from her for a while.

Humph.

Going to pour myself a drink. A _large_ one.

**Tuesday 17th January**

**16:00 — Home.**

Have been looking at the job advertisements in the _Daily Prophet_.

It's all a bit awkward really. Some application forms ask for the reason for leaving your previous job. Will 'I couldn't stand another minute in that shit-hole' ever be acceptable? And… I don't even want to contemplate the reasons I left Hogwarts, let alone write them down.

Furthermore, my C.V. is a bit of a sketchy document. No problems with my educational qualifications, of course; it's just everything else that's the problem.

**Work Experience:**

1981 - 1996: Potions Master/Head of Slytherin — Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

1996 - 1997: Defence Against the Dark Arts Master/Head of Slytherin — Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

1997 - 1998: Headmaster — Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

2001 -2004: Dogsbody — Department of Mysteries. Ministry of Magic.

(So far so good.)

**Skills:**

Potion-making — can brew Wolfsbane with one hand tied behind my back (ha!). Exceptional Occlumens. Proficient Legilimens. Extensive knowledge of curses…and counter-curses. Excellent flier. Good at espionage.

**Notable achievements:**

Former member of the Death Eaters. Member of the Order of the Phoenix.

Aargh!

How ridiculous is this? Am I allowed to airbrush some of my past, in the hope that there are still some mortals on this earth who do not already know my entire life story? Let's face it; how many employers are going to be eager to see _my_ name on a list of candidates?

I fell into my job at the Ministry. Actually, I have fallen into all of the jobs I've held. Never applied for a single one. Never bloody _wanted_ a single one. Not even the Defence Against the Dark Arts one.

Perhaps I should give up looking and just wait for a job to fall into my lap again? All good things come to those who wait, after all.

**18:00**

Glance into vault at Gringotts' suggests previous idea would do well to be abandoned.

Estimate am only few months away from mortifying insolvency.

**18:10**

Merlin. Hope Granger doesn't have expensive tastes. Am stuffed otherwise.

**Thursday 19th January**

Went to the Apothecary today. Heard that Jigger is dead. Keeled over into a tank of newts, apparently.

Pity.

**Saturday 21st January**

No word from Granger since our last rendezvous. It's been a week. How long are you supposed to leave these things? Obviously, if I have not heard from her in a month, I will know she's decided she can't stand me. But a week is all right, isn't it?

And, actually… suppose _I_ should think about contacting her at some point, shouldn't I? Everything has been organised by her so far.

Oh God. _Why_ did I get myself embroiled in all this… _nonsense_?

**18:00**

Actually… I know very well why.

**18:09**

Here we go then. Shall send a note to her and hope for the best.

_Dear Hermione, _

_When shall we two meet again? In thunder—_

Must be serious.

_Dear Hermione,_

_Please do me the honour of accompanying me to dinner—_

Sounds a bit stuffy.

_Dear Hermione,_

_The Leaky Cauldron. Monday. Seven o'clock._

_Be there._

Would like to think I could get away such brusque tones, but… better not push my luck.

_Dear Hermione,_

_I would very much like to see you again—_

Sound a bit desperate now, don't I?

Bah. Can't do anything right. Am useless.

**18:30**

Have finally managed to send a quick note. Fairly sure I shall die of shame and embarrassment if I hear nothing in reply.

**20:00**

No reply yet.

**Sunday 22nd January**

**09:30**

Still no reply.

Humph.

**21:00**

There has _still_ been no reply. Getting worried now.

**Monday 23rd January**

**11:00**

Went out this morning to buy the _Daily_ _Prophet, _to look through the job vacancies. What a waste of time. Nothing in there whatsoever. What am I going to do?

There's no way in hell I can go crawling cap-in-hand back to the Ministry. And I am not going to turn to Hogwarts, either.

What a state I'm in—jobless and snubbed.

Too early for a snifter… ? Probably. Still, not going to hurt to add drunkard to the list, is it?

There: am jobless, snubbed, and a drunkard.

Perfect.

**21:30**

Envelope bearing Miss Granger's compact script has arrived via owl…

After hours and hours on tenterhooks, am now afraid of opening it.

**21:40**

Can breathe again. We're going out on Saturday night. Am determined to make special effort to avoid disaster this time. Yes. Am determined. Will not be put off by anyone or anything.

And my face, this time, will most certainly be an impassive mask when I first clap eyes on her. _Nothing_ is going to throw me for a loop.

**Thursday 26th January**

Saturday is fast approaching but this is all I shall write on the matter.

Nothing further until it's over—shall only work myself up, otherwise.

**Saturday 28th January**

**23:30 — Home.**

First thing to point out; I survived. As did she, of course.

To my relief, she made no mention of our disastrous jaunt to the Muggle restaurant last week. Her hair was a curly mass; I was able to blend into the familiar Leaky décor—things were fine.

Until she started talking, that is.

'What have you been doing this week?' she asked, speaking with real interest in her voice.

My mind went blank. Actually, it didn't go blank, per se; it was _already_ blank because I have done fuck all this week. Didn't want to tell her that, though. Wanted to preserve some sort of notion that I'm a man of intrigue.

'Well,' I said crisply. 'While the job-hunting is ongoing, I've been working on a few pet projects on the side. I'm writing a book, you see.'

Oh my God. Why did I say that? It is this stupid diary's fault. Writing in here is about all I've done this week. And diary equals book, apparently.

Her face lit up with approval, though. Pat on the back for me, I'd say.

'Oh, really? What are you writing about?'

'Oh… er… It's about cutting techniques in the twelfth century.'

Oh my good gracious me.

_Cutting techniques in the twelfth century? _

_What_?

'It's, ah, more of a monograph really…'

She nodded. 'Sounds very interesting. I'm sure I'd like to read it when it's finished.'

As if! She must have been lying. _Cutting techniques in the twelfth century? _I despair, I really do.

'How has your week been?' I asked hurriedly, gulping from my drink in an effort to drive my complete idiocy from my mind.

'Tiresome,' she replied grimly. 'I don't know how this country manages to survive, I really don't. Have you heard about the new reform the Ministry is trying to push through the Wizengamot? It's outrageous. For goblins, it's going to be nothing less than a stealth tax.'

I nodded vaguely.

'I'm telling you, the Ministry'll have another bloody revolution on their hands if they're not careful. Anyway, we're drawing up a case on behalf of the goblins to sue the Ministry if the reform goes through; sue them for discrimination.'

Well… That puts me in shade, doesn't it? Whilst I've been writing a phantom monograph on cutting techniques in the twelfth century, Granger has been suing the Ministry. I can feel that inferiority complex coming upon me already…

No… I'm impressed; of course I am. Wouldn't have been sitting opposite her if I weren't by turns fascinated and, yes, maybe even awed. Not a common occurrence for me, by any means.

'So yes, a tiresome week,' she continued, 'but… with something to look forward to at the end of it.'

I was about to ask what that might be, when she looked at me purposefully and I realised she meant me! I felt perilously close to blushing. I didn't, mind. Then again, maybe she's as much of a fibber as I am? In any case, I sought to deflect my discomfort.

'The food here really is something to behold; I agree,' I said dryly.

She smiled slowly. 'Yes…'

Am sorry, but I cannot deal with compliments. Hate them. Can't stand the attention. Have to counter-balance it with a healthy dose of self-deprecation.

Still, am pleased with the way the evening went. Was probably the best one we've had so far, which might not be saying very much at this juncture… but there we are. And the little smooch we had in her doorway at the end of the night was very nice too. Nothing to complain about there. Nope.

Makes a change, doesn't it?

**00:35**

Oh God. Have just had dreadful vision of Granger going inside her house and pulling out _her own diary _to complain about _me_.

Does she have a diary? Does she? She's never mentioned keeping one…

It's fine… she's probably too busy to keep a running commentary on her life. It's just for layabouts like me with aeons of time on their hands…

Humph.

Bugger it; going to bed now.

* * *

><p>AN: Hope you liked it; thanks for reading. And thanks very much to Cave Felem for brushing up this chapter very nicely.<p> 


	2. February

**The Diary of a Somebody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Wednesday 1st February**

**21:00 — Home.**

Have received a note from Minerva inviting me to one of her gatherings at the Hog's Head. Well, I don't need her handouts anymore, do I? Have a social life all of my own these days.

Ha ha. Can just see Minerva's face on hearing that. Would probably find myself on the wrong end of a Stinging Hex.

Anyway, will probably go, as I've nothing else to do on that _particular _night. Don't think I'm going to ask Granger to join me, though. Can't face all the inevitable nonsense from my old colleagues yet. And it's not as if she would _expect_ me to invite her, so that's fine.

That's right, isn't it?

She wouldn't be offended… would she?

No… She has a life beyond me so… what's the difference? I'm right. Definitely.

Oh.

Who does she see when she's not seeing me? Just the Potters'?

Hopefully.

**21:25**

Better not be another man.

**21:30**

Better fucking not be _Weasley_.

Humph.

Who are her friends? Bet she has more than she can count.

Whereas I, on the other hand, have a bunch of old biddies who only talk to me, I suspect, out of habit. Oh, and Minerva, who probably just sees me as the perfect outlet for her stifled, under-developed maternal instinct.

Thoroughly depressed myself now.

**Friday 3rd February**

**15:30 — Slowly going round the bend.**

So ineffably bored I cannot think straight!

Considered doing some brewing, but have nothing to put in a brew.

Considered doing some reading, but I've no books to read.

Considered going for a walk, but have nowhere to walk to.

Help.

**13:09**

Might even start writing 'Cutting Techniques in the Twelfth Century'…

Except… I'm fairly sure cutting techniques in the twelfth century are more or less the same as those in the twenty-first century.

Can't have taken many attempts to get the development of the knife down pat, can it?

Granger must think I'm a right stupid idiot.

**Sunday 12th February**

**16:00 — Home. **

Hmm… Am becoming increasingly aware that in two days time it will be that dreaded day—_Valentine's Day_. Never had to worry myself over it before. Never had to think about it all.

Except for that time in my fifth year when I… No, best off banishing that incident from memory for ever.

And now… well…

Luckily, or perhaps _unluckily_ (depending on your point-of-view), Granger is due in the Wizengamot early on the morning of the fifteenth and has decreed that she shall be busy reading up on her case notes and making general preparations until then.

Bloody fine by me. Seems a bit early on in the game to be getting embroiled in such a ridiculously commercial and pointless occasion. So the pressure is off a little then, but…

Am I still going to have to buy her a card? Is she going to expect one or not? What if she doesn't send one back? Am I _supposed_ to expect one back? Should I be highly offended if she doesn't send one?

Aargh!

**16:25**

Hang on. She's stayed out late on nights before court cases before… There was that time when she bloody well got hammered in Yorkshire and had to Apparate whilst under the influence in order to arrive on time.

Is she spinning me a line? Maybe she already has plans. Has she got someone else on the go? Maybe she'd even rather spend the day by herself than with me…

Merlin; sometimes I wish I could just turn myself off. I'm starting to do my own head in with my pathetic paranoia.

**16:55**

If I send a card—is that enough? Or will she expect some further token? Flowers? Chocolate? A singing Cupid?

To be honest, I'm not sure I'll be able to bring myself to even _look _at one of those nauseating cards, let alone do anything else.

Humph.

**Monday 13th February**

**9:00**

Oh fuck. Still haven't bought anything. Am getting worried now.

**10:30 — Leaky.**

Have been walking around Diagon Alley for the last hour in a panicked haze. Went into Flourish and Blotts', looked at the cards, and I couldn't do it. Can't do it. Can't buy a card. Can't write in it. Physically can't. I cannot pick up one of those ridiculous, overly-sentimental, trite, nonsensical pieces of reinforced parchment and take it to the till to pay for. And I'm not going to steal it… (though, I'd clearly get away with it…).

Am going to have to think of something else.

**15:30 — Home.**

Think I might have just pulled things back. Wandered around Diagon Alley for a few more hours and couldn't find anything until I went into Potage's and found myself looking at a rather attractive glass phial.

Inspiration hit me like a train. I bought the phial, chucked a few ingredients into a cauldron and _voila_, had a nice little scent on my hands. Stoppered it into the phial and job done. It's thoughtful, but not unduly extravagant. Just like me. Hah.

Had a bit of a close shave, however. Nearly bumped into Potter. Saw him staring into the window of Twilfitt and Tatting, so I quickly dived across the cobbles and occupied myself with hurrying as far away from him as I could get. Suspect he was on the same mission as I was. I take no pleasure in this supposition. In fact, it unsettles me greatly. Hence my hasty retreat.

So… Have decided I'm not going to send a card. Will compose an accompanying note instead; I'm fairly confident she will appreciate it just the same. Just have to think what I'm going to write in it now. Hmm.

_Dear Hermione,_

_Please accept this token of my… affection…? _

Or _regard_, maybe?

Oh dear. Neither word is sufficient but… well, will have to do…

**Tuesday 14 February**

**13:00**

Have received nothing from Granger. No note. Nothing. I know she's busy, but… am afraid I have misjudged…

**22:00**

It's fine. She appeared on my doorstep this afternoon, straight from the Ministry, apparently. She thrust a bottle of brandy towards me and said 'For you.'

I was touched. Really; am not entirely joking…

'I decided I wanted to spare an hour or two to have a drink with you, if that's all right?'

I frowned uneasily. 'Oh… Ah, I don't know… I have company…'

Her expression suddenly froze. 'Oh,' she uttered quietly. 'Sorry.'

When she actually turned to leave, I let out a series of low chuckles. As the truth dawned she rolled her eyes and barged straight past me, scoffing irritably that she 'should've known.'

She's right; she should have.

**Saturday 18th February**

**18:00 **

Off to Hog's Head tonight. Should be a good (ish) night.

**23:50 — Home. Pissed and pissed off. **

Verrry shit night! Minerva and I have fallen out. Old cow. Stuff her. Who does she think she is? Why does she have to stick her nose in?

…

Going to bed now—had too much booze.

**Sunday 19th February**

**15:00 — Bloody bed in the afternoon!**

Have only just woken up. Feel sick. Also feel slightly disgusted with my increasingly sedentary existence.

Well… Can't be arsed to move yet, and there's no other claim on my time today so might as well recount blow-by-blow what went on last night. I arrived at the pub and the rest of them were already there. Only managed five minutes of peace, however, before Rolanda got things going. Why is it always _her_?

'How's things with Mrs Weasley?' she cooed and then chuckled to herself at her little joke. Silly cow. Granger is by definition no longer a Weasley. So why is she bothering with weak little pokes like that?

'Actually, Severus,' threw in Pomona patronisingly. 'I thought you might have brought her along tonight.'

I stared at her. '_Why_?' I demanded brusquely.

Why should I have brought her? We've been seeing each other for less than two months.

'Oh well… I don't know…' she muttered into her glass, sufficiently cowed at my uncompromising glare.

'Bit defensive there, Severus; she hasn't given you the boot already, has she?' Rolanda, unfortunately, never gets cowed.

Sometimes, I don't know why I bother with these people.

'Stop teasing him,' admonished Minerva, proceeding to steer the conversation into other waters. Didn't stop Hagrid glaring at me intermittently throughout the night though. What's he sizing me up for? Going to kick my head in if I step out of line, eh?

Would like to see him try.

Drink flowed (of course) and I think Minerva had a few too many whiskies, for later on in the evening she turned to me and said, "How _are_ matters between you and Hermione?" I'm not sure she would have been so straightforward under drier circumstances. A further point to note was that this was no casual inquiry. I rather thought her tone was stiff and her expression as tight as wax. I made no reply; simply looked at her. My appraisal didn't go unnoticed and she raised an eyebrow. 'What?' she asked defensively.

I suppressed an indignant smirk as I comprehended what was bothering her. 'You don't approve, do you?'

Her expression flickered. 'I'm sorry? I don't think—'

'_Do you_?'

She opened and closed her mouth before clenching her jaw and shaking her head drunkenly. 'I've been thinking about it and… I don't know that it _is_ such a good idea.'

Not as if I've never expected this response; I just hadn't expected it from this particular quarter, unfortunately.

'I realise she could do a lot better than me. What have I got to offer—'

'It's not that,' she muttered irritably, her eyes drooping slightly from the drink.

'The difference in age, then.'

'It's… She has only recently come out of a marriage, Severus. A _marriage_. I'd be wary of anyone getting involved at this juncture, but…'

'But that it's me makes things ten times worse… Thanks.'

Clearly, Minerva has no faith in me. She was the one who, not so very long ago, was banging on about finding me a woman! Probably only said it because she knew she'd never find one for me. Marriage or no marriage; she just doesn't see me as having enough to offer to keep someone like Granger interested.

'What do you know about relationships?' she slurred gruffly, and I felt an inward blush at her pointing out my complete lack of success in this area. 'I worry that things won't turn out the way you would wish.'

'Bollocks!' I snapped, surprising the both of us, probably. 'You just don't like the thought of your former teacher's pet associating with me.'

'That's not—'

'And what in the name of arse do _you_ know about relationships anyway?'

Her expression became wintry. I'd spoken a bit too loudly and the conversations around us were faltering. The trouble with Minerva and me is that while we've had some real humdingers before, they were usually over professional matters, not personal ones. Since leaving Hogwarts, however, I've noticed our interaction stray further into that murky area, simply because Hogwarts is not in our shared interest anymore.

She pursed her lips and looked away; ignoring me. We ignored each other for the rest of the night, in fact. I joined Horace and was forced to listen to how many get-well cards and gifts he'd received from illustrious former students during his recent illness. I swilled my drink in an effort ignore his droning and brooded instead. And, unfortunately, I began to feel it was me who was in the wrong with regard to Minerva. It's probably because some ingrained part of me automatically respects and defers to her because she is older and was my teacher for seven years—

…

Oh good Merlin.

_Oh my good Merlin_.

Wish my hand had withered away before writing those words! Oh God! No; they're wrong. I've got it completely wrong.

It's… not the same for Granger and me, is it? Does she have some unconscious notions about me—inadvertent behaviours because I was once her teacher?

Merlin. This whole weekend is turning out to be a shit one. Minerva and me aren't speaking, and I'm seeing someone who won't be able to stand up to me because she's sub-consciously afraid I'll deduct points from Gryffindor.

Lovely.

**15:50 — Still in bed.**

Have thought about it a little more and I don't think it's the same. The relative age gaps are too different: Minerva could be my grandmother...probably. (Better not tell her that the next time I see her.) Am sure Hermione would gladly hex me to kingdom come if she felt I deserved it.

And maybe my disquiet over offending Minerva has nothing to do with 'respecting my elders' either…

Maybe it's because, deep down, I fear she might have a point…

**Tuesday 21st February**

**15:00 — Home.**

Have had terrible and exhilarating idea with regard to my non-existent career.

Was in Slug and Jiggers' today and the business is up for sale. Jigger junior, apparently, has no interest in keeping the apothecary going following his father's death and wants to sell up.

What if… Could _I_ run an apothecary? I dismissed before the idea of setting up my own business on the grounds that I couldn't be arsed… but this business is _already set up_…

Let's face it, what I don't know about the world of potion-making just isn't worth knowing about. I know exactly how to store ingredients; where to source them; how to use them…

Oh. Just one small problem, of course.

Have no money to buy a business.

**17:00**

Still thinking about the apothecary. Wish I'd never gone there today. It's a ridiculous idea, really…

Maybe I should go to Gringotts' and have a chat with the goblins about getting a loan. I reckon Jigger junior would seriously consider me, as well. Perilously close to convincing myself here.

Have thought of another trifling issue, though: don't actually know anything about running a business. Still, from the state of some of the establishments in Diagon Alley, think it's fair to say that few magic folk do.

Clearly, though, have all the hallmarks of a polymath and can turn my hand to anything, including business…

Shall continue to ponder, methinks…

**Friday 24th February**

**10:00 — Home. **

Am meeting Hermione tonight. That scuffle I had with Minerva is still on my mind and I'm feeling a bit hesitant towards the lady in question.

And yet, it's been about two months since we came to an understanding. Two months! A triumph in my book, if not in anyone else's. I shouldn't let silly things bother me. I fear though, that only when it's been _two decades _will I probably finally feel secure and comfortable. Typical me.

I must say, it's a lot different going out with her for dinner than it was that (one) time I went with Lucinda. There are some aspects of my character I, naturally, want to camouflage at this juncture, but there is no feeling that I need to put on a front. 'False' was how I think I felt about that Lucinda thing… Well, in this instance, Granger would know I'm pretending because she's known me long enough… ish. Depends whether you want to count the student years or not… Not sure that I do, actually…

Still, it's difficult. Take, for instance, greetings.

How am I supposed to greet her when I see her?

A hug? Sorry; can't do spontaneous hugs. How the fuck could _I_ ever pull off a spontaneous hug?

A kiss? But where? On the cheek? On the _lips_? Or is it too early for that sort of thing?

I just don't know. I mean, _how_ am _I_ supposed to know? My standard greeting for any person is nine times out of ten a pained grimace, and the other time, no acknowledgment whatsoever.

And she's not much help, either.

The other day, when we met outside the Leaky, after 'Hello,' we just stood there. When she started looking awkward, I simply opened the door and indicated for her to go through.

Am _I_ supposed to determine such etiquette? Is it down to me, as a man? Or have I just committed an unforgivably chauvinistic offence in even thinking that?

I bloody well hope it's not down to me to make the moves because she'll be waiting a bloody long time—we both will.

**18:45**

Here we go. Three gulps of whisky and I'm about ready to depart. Minerva can piss off.

**Saturday 25th February**

**11:00 — Home.**

**_I've only just got in from last night._**

**_! ! !_**

Can't think properly at the moment to write anything further than that.

**Noon.**

Yesterday was a good day. Feel I should be struck be down for writing something so blasphemous, but can't be helped; it's the truth. Things seemed to be on a downward spiral at the beginning of the evening, but righted themselves soon enough. Oh my good Merlin yes.

Felt normal (apprehensive) on seeing her, and when I realised how pretty she looked, my thoughts turned further inward. I should have been coming out with some flowery compliments and entertaining her as we waited for our meals to arrive, but instead, all I could think about was my own inadequacy and wonder what on earth she was doing even turning up here with me.

The snifter(s) before I left perhaps weren't such a good idea. I don't know why I resort to drink because it rarely buoys me up with false confidence. More often than not, it simply adds a melancholic tinge to my musings. In this instance, such thinking made me feel uncharitable towards her and, indeed, self-obsessed. Surprise, surprise; in order to deal with that, I drank (it's a terribly vicious circle).

I hasten to add this was not done _too_ obtrusively. She never mentioned it, so I don't think she noticed… But wouldn't be surprised if she suspects I have a drink problem… (sometimes _I_ wonder…).

And so, perching on the edge of contemptible, self-inflicted gloom, anyone may imagine how I was shoved blindly downwards when the door to the pub opened and I glanced up to see a horde of her old classmates pile in! Found myself watching Longbottom, Thomas and Finnegan lurch to the bar. Granger was already there, getting us some more drinks, and her former comrades were soon crowding around her rowdily.

I watched them talk and laugh for a moment, imagining what they might be saying. Didn't really come up with much, except I felt certain there would be a suggestion that she should join them in their carousing.

And then…

It was _precisely _as I anticipated it. Three expressions dropped simultaneously. Like stones. I knew then she must have told them. She had informed them she was with _me_.

Another time, I might have taken pleasure in their palpable shock, but not that night. It hit a little too close to home. Not even the fiery heat of Ogden's best could alleviate the sting.

She appeared to excuse herself and returned, whilst I cowardly contemplated crying off with a sudden illness. Wouldn't have been too far from the truth really. Did feel a bit sick having to sit there while those three cretins took it in turns to send not very surreptitious, stunned glances towards us.

Evidently, my expression must have been beginning to fail with regard to giving the impression I was fine. Or maybe it was the fact that silence had elongated between us far too long for it to be acceptable. In any case, she suddenly asked, 'What's wrong, Severus? You don't seem yourself tonight.'

Myself? I wondered; fascinated slightly by the fact she felt she knew me at all.

'Nothing.'

She looked unconvinced and said nothing for a time, during which an awkward tension then descended over us like a smog.

Just when I was beginning to think I wouldn't be able to stand it any longer, she said, 'Tell you what; let's go.'

My stomach clenched in alarm, thinking she was fed up and wanted to call it a night.

'Let's go somewhere else,' she clarified with an encouraging smile. 'It's a bit noisy in here tonight, isn't it?'

It wasn't that noisy, but she stood up, leaving me no room to argue and I dumbly got to my feet as well. Eyes followed our departure and I clenched my teeth together to resist my desire to leave a few hexes in my wake.

'Let's go for a walk,' she suggested once we were outside. 'I shall Apparate us.'

I only had a few seconds to wonder, knowing how much she enjoyed her walks, where on earth she would take us to, but when the world had righted itself again, we were still in London, only by the bank of the river. And my bloody God was it cold!

She sucked in a breath, searching her coat pockets. 'Typical; forgotten my bloody gloves…'

I felt my nice woolly ones in my pocket and reluctantly pulled them out. 'Here,' I offered, hoping I sounded more chivalrous than begrudging.

'Thanks!' She shoved her hands into them and then went to stand overlooking the river, folding her arms and leaning on the wall. I resigned my hands to the negligible warmth of my pockets and followed. My pace was a bit slower. Don't normally get dizzy after Apparating, so must have been the, ah, drink. (One of these days, I'm going to get through an outing with her entirely sober).

The cold would soon sort me out, though, and I glanced cursorily at the lights that shimmered on the water, a sight which obviously enamoured her, before turning my back to it and looking at the Muggles rushing up and down the Embankment instead.

And it was standing there that I felt more keenly out of place than I have possibly ever felt. Such moments in her company, of course, are not unfamiliar to me. However, this was not some short stab of self-consciousness I could suppress with a shrug of inner bravado. It was a moment of almost incapacitating self-doubt and suspicion of her and her reasons for even being there in the first place.

In the swell of the misgivings, so came the melodrama and the very real consideration that what was going on between us was some terrible error in judgement. On my part, certainly.

How plausible, really, is it for a man such as myself, with all that has gone on in my past, and after years of solitary existence and inward obsession, to suddenly be able to get involved with a woman who is half his age and a former student to boot?

Have, obviously, marvelled over this before, but right then it felt utterly ludicrous to me. Painfully ludicrous, even.

And I didn't know what to say in the noisy silence. I didn't know whether I should tell her these things, never mind _how_ to tell her these things. I didn't know whether to dismiss them as silly anxiety. I didn't know whether I should heed them as a warning.

Had to do something, though. Couldn't stand there like a lemon all night. Couldn't wallow in a muddled haze forever. And despite wanting to forget my thoughts, I managed to betray myself into revealing some of my trouble.

'Are you in touch with Minerva?' I found myself asking her, half-debating whether to bite my tongue out after I had done so.

I sensed her shift in confusion, but I kept my eyes ahead, not really knowing where I was going with this foray into conversation.

'We see each other sometimes, yes,' she confirmed. 'But not on a particularly regular basis. In fact, I've not seen her since the new year. Why?'

Suppose I'd been wondering whether Minerva would have had the front to speak to Hermione directly about our involvement. Was glad to hear differently.

Despite feeling I was dropping Minerva in it slightly, I continued. 'She doesn't approve of… this.'

There was silence from my companion, and I suddenly felt a bit defensive about my bringing it up. 'I realise this is nothing to do with her—'

'But her opinion matters to you. It's all right; I understand.'

I hesitated, not really having thought of it in those terms. Did Minerva's opinion matter? _Does_ it matter? Maybe it does... Precious few other people have ever bothered to take an interest in my life, after all.

I finally turned to her and she was looking pensively at her hands. As I looked at her, I felt some of my unease… ease. Minerva may very well be right—I may not turn out to be enough for Hermione Granger, whether in the aftermath of her marriage or out of it. I may not be able to handle a relationship when it hits me in the face, but… never going to know unless I try, am I?

'Look; it's nothing she won't get over once the novelty has worn off,' I heard myself say in a positive voice. 'She's just a bit of a traditionalist, that's all.'

'Yes… Tell her there are _far_ bigger age-gaps about.'

I nodded my agreement, not wanting to enlighten her over Minerva's real bone of contention. Or even my bone of contention. I'm losing count of the many bones, to be frank.

'So, anything else bothering you?' she asked after a time, looking at me intently.

I told her no, but of course it was a lie. I'm always bloody bothered in some way or another. And I was bothered then by how I should be thanking my lucky stars. Still, on second thought, not as though they haven't got any making up to do for their complete non-attendance during my formative years, is it? Told myself to enjoy it while it lasted. Make the most of it, because as surely as the earth is round, someone or something will eventually put a spanner in the works.

She suddenly became a little bit self-conscious under my consideration and glanced away first. Or maybe, in hindsight, she was being deliberately coy… Whatever; the effect roused within me a certain level of feeling which made me think I might have it in me to make the moves after all. I unfurled a frozen hand from my pocket and…

And then put it back in my pocket. Clearly, I don't have it in me. Am to be plagued by self-doubt until my dying day, it seems. Pathetic. Felt like throwing myself over the wall and into the icy depths of the river. At least then I wouldn't have to be sick of myself all the time.

However… I obviously didn't throw myself to my death. She hadn't witnessed my indecision, so I was free to brace myself and try something else that was not so very desperate. I crossed my arms and rested them atop the wall, mimicking her posture, deciding that I could, at least, talk.

'What did your friends in the pub say when you said who you were with?'

Her eyes snapped from the river to mine straight away. I raised my eyebrows in a flippant manner to show I was prepared for what was to come.

'Well,' she began, a tentative, apologetic smile forming, 'they were mostly reduced to incoherent jibbers, but I think Neville was checking my eyes for signs of _Imperio_.'

Hah. Very funny, Longbottom.

'_Are_ you under _Imperio_?'

She shrugged. 'You tell me,' she added cheekily, laughing.

I let out an amused breath; near enough a laugh, but not quite. Of course her friends would want to check her for signs of Dark magic.

'Maybe we should take you to St. Mungo's and get you certified fit, curse-free and sound of mind?' I suggested as airily as I could.

'Oh, that won't be necessary.'

Suddenly, she was shuffled right up to my side. Felt some of my earlier preoccupation dissolve then. How could it not when she was pressed against me and I could smell that perfume I'd expertly crafted/thrown together from scratch? Though it often seems like it, I'm not entirely dead inside.

And realising that no one was going to come along and helpfully _Imperio_ me into action, I uncrossed my arms and put one around her shoulders. Before I could dwell on how different this small action made me feel, she made a small noise of appreciation and I decided to tell myself to shut up.

It helped.

And then…

'I'm cold,' she announced after a moment of quiet.

Cold. Right. I could no longer feel my hands, but was I complaining? Before an inexplicable sense of disappointment could really take hold, she looked up and said, 'Let's go somewhere warmer.' Then she was biting her lip indecisively, in two minds about something, and I… don't know what made me do it, but my fingers were under her chin and my thumb was pulling her bottom lip free.

'Yours… or mine?' she posed softly.

Considering I felt I might suddenly go into cardiac arrest, I nearly suggested St. Mungo's. But, cleverly maintaining my outward composure, I thought of my abode, and of the half empty Ogden's bottle I'd left open on the table, the cauldrons I had lying about, and the fact that I would have nothing to offer her apart from booze, and said, 'Yours.'

And, well… Don't think I should write anything more about what happened later on. Not as if I'm going to forget about it, is it? Can't stop bloody thinking about it. Anyway, I'd feel a bit of a perverted old man if I recounted a blow-by-blow account of what—

Oh dear. Unfortunate choice of… Oh well. No one will be reading this diary, of course; doesn't matter. But, maybe I'll up the ward count later on…

In any case, matters progressed to the point where it seemed… practical for me to stay. And believe me, no one was more surprised than I was. Surprised by myself, mostly. Yet, it's always easier for me to be around her when no one else is.

Wonder if she'd consent to only ever seeing me in private?

Of course, this new development is, naturally, threatening to add a further dimension to my indefatigable self-doubt, but I refuse to acknowledge it right now! No. There's no need. Won't go there. Can't.

Forget everything else. I shall simply concentrate on the feeling that I'm eagerly anticipating seeing her again.

_My_ definition of eager of course—full of poise.

* * *

><p>AN: Many thanks to Cave Felem for editing this chapter, and thank you for reading : )<p> 


	3. March

**The Diary of a Somebody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Sunday 4th March**

**9:00 — Home.**

Didn't sleep very well last night. Woke up in the small hours after a nightmare. Can still recall it quite clearly, it involved me and…

Actually… not sure I want to go into great detail.

But it did involve Granger laughing at me, humiliating me, and then telling me she'd rather fornicate with her ex-husband.

Lovely.

Day can only get better.

**20:30**

Day did not get better.

Pissed down with rain while I was out, and when I returned, I discovered my pot plants in the garden were battered and waterlogged. Some had even been blown over by the wind and were scattered haphazardly across the grass.

Humph.

Don't know why I bother sometimes.

**Thursday 8th March**

**12:30 — Leaky. Diagon Alley.**

Been to see Jigger this morning for a little discussion about the apothecary. He seemed relieved that I'm interested, which leads me to believe no one else is. Hmm.

Think I might know why this is: had to endeavour not to choke when I saw the price he wants. _Merlin_.

I, of course, retained my composure and made it look like such an extortionate amount of Galleons was small change to me.

Still, the business seems sound enough; turns over some semblance of profit, at least. Not a lot of competition around. And according to Jigger, there is a good deal of potential that his father simply hadn't the drive explore.

Felt a bit suspicious of these claims, naturally. Why does he not continue the business himself, then?

He asserts, however, that he knows nothing about the potion-making industry and the trappings that go with it. By all accounts, he seems to be a bit of a black sheep. A brief moment of eye contact confirmed this lack of knowledge to me. Apparently, he wishes to use the money to "pay off a few, ah, debts".

Debt is what I'm going to have if I seriously go through with this venture.

He showed me the back-of-house areas, which, in all honesty, are negligible. There's a big enough storage area, and an office, but nothing much upstairs.

Every inch carries the stench of the apothecary, as well. Am probably alone in finding it quite pleasant.

Anyway, am currently awaiting Granger from the Ministry. She Floo'd me this morning, telling me to meet her for lunch as she has a proposition to put to me.

I told her she can proposition me whenever she likes.

Hah.

**14:00 — Home. Contemplating _Avada Kedavra_.**

Granger has, by all accounts, taken leave of her senses.

And I don't mean by taking up with me, I mean because she has just asked me, entirely seriously, if I…

Ugh it doesn't bear thinking about—I'm starting to get a pain in my chest when I do. Why would she inflict this on me?

And she's a crafty one. She lulled me into false sense of security by providing me with a Scotch and gigantic roast beef sandwich, which I nearly choked on when she said, very carefully:

'Harry and Ginny have invited us to dinner next week at Grimmauld Place…'

Aargh!

'Excuse me?' I mumbled faintly. Was probably one of the few times in my life when I've actually pulled off gormless.

'I realise it may not be your cup of tea,' she continued, fiddling with a beer mat and avoiding my vacant gaze. 'However…'

My heart sank into my stomach. "However…" told me all I needed to know: they're her _friends_; she doesn't want to be _rude_…

_Go on your own, then_, I felt like saying. _They're not my friends. I don't mind being rude…_

But again, am disadvantaged by the fact we've not been going out for very long. I'm not sure how big a fuss I can kick up and still emerge triumphant. Tried testing the water, though, of course.

'Dinner at Grimmauld Place…' I stated, enunciating the words with just a suggestion of disgust.

'The children will be at the Burrow,' she offered brightly.

Oh, well that's all right then! As long as the _children_ are at the Burrow, what am I worried about?

'Will Potter be at the Burrow?' I muttered under my breath.

She frowned. 'It'll only be for a few hours…'

A few hours too many. But what could I do? Not as if I had a legitimate excuse to get out of it. That I can't stand Potter is never going to wash with her. That I dread associating with her friends is hardly likely to please her.

Was cornered. I shrugged ungraciously in defeat and she immediately smiled in excitement. She hurried off to buy some more drinks, whilst I, on the other hand, turned my head and grimaced to myself with infinite dismay.

Fuck.

Dinner with pissing Potter at Grimmauld _pissing _Place.

What sorry state has my life come to?

**Friday 9th March**

Have to say, Hermione is very appreciative of my agreeing to join her at Grimmauld Place. Can't complain there.

Am still racking my brains, however, in order to rope her into something _she_ doesn't want to do.

Unfortunately… can't think of anything. Don't really know if there's anything she doesn't like.

Humph.

**Saturday 10th March**

**9:30**

Have made appointment for next week to see one of the goblins at the bank. Have good record with money (mostly because I've hardly ever had any) so don't see why they would refuse me any capital.

Spent quite a bit of time sorting through the parchments and journals and books I've collected over the years, filled with recipes, amendments, ideas, you name it. Jigger junior provided me with a complete list of the items currently stocked within the apothecary and there are umpteen additions I could potentially make, particularly with regard to ready-made potions.

Believe I may have left some of my more suspect notes hidden away at Hogwarts… along with a few other creations… Will possibly consider retrieving them at some juncture. Fully realise the apothecary is not in Knockturn Alley, but… I'm aware of what I legally can and can't get away with.

Of course, I don't know when I'm supposed to do all this. When I'm supposed to brew these potions. If I do take over the apothecary, there will only be me.

Hmm…

Not sure anyone would want to come to work for me… willingly.

**18:30 — Ugh.**

Am seriously considering downing a mild poison in order to incapacitate myself for tonight's festivities.

However… haven't got the guts.

Granger will be here at any moment and then we shall depart to Grimmauld Place. Hope she realises this could be the end of us. Who knows how I may react when forced to endure close quarters with Potter for an extended length of time? Who knows what the strain will induce?

Am unsure whether it will be better for me to drink my way through the ordeal, or whether to limit the alcohol in exchange for keeping my wits about me…

It's a conundrum.

Anyway, there's just been a knock on the door, which means she's here. Lovely. Off to my doom I go.

**Sunday 11th March**

**11:00 — Granger's house.**

Well, we've all lived to tell the tale. Potter is unharmed. The damage that has been wrought on my mental state remains to be seen, however.

We Apparated to Grimmauld Place, and once there, I stared at the door distastefully—I wasn't about to break the habit of a lifetime. Incidentally, appearing on Potter's doorstep is an occurrence that seems to be happening far more frequently than I would like. Furthermore, this frequency is only likely to increase with time. Oh God.

A hand on my sleeve cut through my despair, and Hermione looked up with an encouraging smile. 'We'll have fun,' she said simply, before knocking on the door.

_Fun_? I don't do _fun_, I almost said, but caught myself at the last moment. I may be a miserly sod but that's not for her to know yet. Or maybe it's obvious and maybe that's just the type she goes for.

As if.

Still… _fun_? Even if I knew how to have _fun_, the likelihood of me having _fun_ with Potter is absurd. Indeed; am having serious reservations with regard to the astonishing level of delusion Granger seems capable of operating under.

The door opened and Ginevra Potter appeared, squealing a greeting in delight and succeeding in sending a reverberating pang of dread down my spine. 'Hello!' she cried at her friend, and then, expression faltering only slightly, looked towards me (unable to make eye contact, mind) and said, 'Hello there, Professor Snape.'

Well, nearly turned round and walked away, didn't I. _Professor_ Snape? Why did she have to say it? _Why_ did she have to draw attention to that old bloody can of worms? In fairness, she seemed to sense immediately her faux pas (how many more of these am I going to have to take?) and looked at Hermione (what about _me_?) apologetically.

'Severus will be… fine, Mrs Potter,' I managed to say without swallowing my tongue. Only just.

She smiled, relieved, and let us in. 'Oh, it's Ginny, please.'

Nope. It'll be Ginevra or nothing.

Potter was waiting in the living room and looking… animated. Don't know why I expected anything less. He rushed forward to greet us, and why, I don't know. He probably saw Granger only yesterday; he's such a bloody old woman.

'Snape,' he said brightly, holding out his hand. Hermione was watching so I had to take it.

'Potter.'

'Severus, what would you like to drink? Firewhisky?' asked Ginevra.

Potter's head immediately snapped towards his wife, seemingly affronted by her behaviour. I assented to the Firewhisky, and as she handed it to me, she caught sight of her husband's scandalised expression and laughed openly.

'Don't worry; he said I could call him Severus.'

'Oh,' said Potter quietly, turning to me. 'Am I allowed—?'

'No.'

I snickered to myself, only belatedly realising that Granger might not approve of my teasing of Potter, but she was opening a bottle of wine and didn't appear to have taken any umbrage.

Ginevra excused herself shortly, claiming a need to finish cooking, and there was just the three of us as we sat down. Hardly a minute had passed before that bothersome girl Granger was on her feet and saying 'Just going to see if Ginny needs any help.'

My mouth nearly fell open in horror as I watched her disappear. How could she do this to me? I gulped down some whisky to fortify myself.

Potter looked warily in the direction of the kitchen. 'Look, er, it's best that Hermione spends a bit of time in the kitchen…' He lowered his voice conspiratorially. 'We might not get anything edible, otherwise.'

And I remembered then, the odd remark Potter has made now and again about his wife's culinary skill. Or lack thereof.

'What is she cooking?'

He sucked in a breath. 'I'm not really sure, to be honest. It's um… You know Molly is feted for her cooking, so Ginny tries to be a bit different. Likes to be a bit more, ah, experimental…'

Potter looked pained.

'She actually really loves cooking, and I made the mistake of buying her a French cuisine cookbook recently. That's what she's using in there now. The French terms are all Greek to me, though. What the hell are _Boulangere potatoes_, you know? What's wrong with a nice bit of mash, eh?'

I nodded vaguely, slightly disturbed that in one area of life, Potter and I are apparently on the same intellectual footing. Bet Granger knows what _Boulangere_ _potatoes_ are. Humph. Bloody know-it-all.

'So look, ah, you won't say anything to Ginny about it, will you? I mean, most of the time it is edible, I assure you…'

Before I could reply, however, Ginevra appeared back in the room, followed by Hermione. Potter looked uncomfortable that I hadn't confirmed to him I would not ridicule his wife's meal, but really, as if I would! I do know how to be reasonable, after all, and Ginevra had done nothing (yet) to warrant my particular brand of distaste. Were it, on the other hand, someone I couldn't stand, well then, it would be a case of letting the chips fall where they may. And besides, Granger wouldn't like it.

There was an awkward silence in the room now. For my own part, I'd resolved to speak only when spoken to, so it was up to them to get the conversation going. Not my fault I have precisely nothing in common with the Potters.

'How are the children?' Hermione asked eventually.

And when Potter launched into the riveting exploits of 'Al' and his brother, I started counting the swirls in the carpet. I'd got to thirty-five before I was required to join the conversation again.

Potter had asked if I'd found a job yet. If I can get this deal with Jigger sorted out, at least I won't have to put up with this infernal question all the bloody time.

'No,' was all I said. He seemed a bit thrown by such a short, abrupt reply, but what more was there to say?

Potter adjusted his glasses 'There's a few openings available in the Auror office at the moment, you know.'

I stared blankly.

'I don't think Severus really wants to become an Auror, Harry,' put in Hermione diplomatically.

I half-glanced at her, wanting to point out that I could speak for myself. What does she know about what I want to do anyway? Whenever she's asked, I've always given her my stock reply: _I don't know_.

'Oh, I don't mean as an Auror. They're looking to establishing a new training programme and need some new blood to implement it.'

'But Harry,' Granger dismissed. 'That would simply be another teaching job. Severus doesn't like teaching.'

Potter scowled at his friend's dogmatic tone. 'Oh all right; it was only a suggestion. Only trying to help.'

I looked into my tumbler and wondered if there was enough liquid in there for me to drown in.

'Are there any opportunities going in your department, Hermione?' piped up Ginevra. 'Maybe you could get him an interview there.'

'No; he doesn't want to go back to the Ministry. Do you?' Granger looked at me and shook her head for me, not waiting for an answer before turning back to her friends.

'Hmm…' they all seemed to murmur thoughtfully.

'What about St. Mungo's?' Potter suggested.

'Believe it or not,' I interrupted briskly, feeling my patience begin to wear thin, 'but I can sort my own life out. In fact, I may already have found a suitable position.'

Granger snapped her around so fast I nearly flinched. 'You never said!'

'Because there's nothing to say yet.' I felt a bit uncomfortable then, not because I felt I'd been caught out, but because I could sense two sets of avid eyes upon us. I thought Hermione might press the point further and demand to know what it is I'm planning, but she evidently also took heed of the audience and simply shrugged in a non-committal fashion. Had the distinct impression she remained a bit miffed, though. Oh well.

Don't want to tell her about the apothecary until it's sorted. Am afraid she will think it a ridiculous idea…

When she had the chance, she eyed me speculatively, but I ignored her, and, in any case, dinner was soon ready and it was forgotten about. Trying, but possibly failing, not to look like I was heading to the gallows, I followed them into the dining room.

The starter was got through without much fuss. It was some sort of soup and was edible enough. Potter and Granger waxed lyrical, so I just added a half-arsed murmur of agreement at the end of their spiel. Felt that contribution on my part with regard to the grub was sufficient for the evening.

And then the main course was brought out.

'Everyone,' said Ginevra proudly, 'this is _pot au feu; _I hope you enjoy it.'

'Looks lovely,' gushed Granger, eagerly reaching for the ladle.

I was not so enthusiastic. I picked up my spoon with only one thought on my mind: _what the fuck is this_? Looked like I'd poured a bucket of slops into my bowl. Suppose, if I was being generous, I could call it some kind of unidentifiable stew. The meat tasted vaguely like beef, so I assume this must be what it was. The vegetables, however, were soggy and tasteless. I glanced up to see Potter dousing his plate with salt and pepper and caught his eye; he subtly pushed the condiments towards me.

With the aid of a few swift gulps of wine, was able to clear most of my plate. Considered using a subtly placed Banishing charm to reduce the contents faster, but decided against pushing my luck.

Unfortunately, my enjoyment wasn't helped any by the furtive glances Potter's wife kept sending me as I waded through what she'd produced. She, I fear, really was expecting points from Gryffindor.

It was a relief when we finally reconvened in the living room and I gratefully took a refill of whisky. I estimated we had another two hours or so to pass and I pondered on the likelihood of me surviving them. Was also wondering if the chip shop 'round the corner from me would still be open by the time I got home.

Hermione flopped down beside me, which was nice, but there were furtive glances levelled our way again. Felt like an exhibit in the zoo. Think it was me they were waiting for to make some unexpected, foreign movement or gesture. What did they want? For me to take Granger's hand and, what, hold it? Put my arm around her shoulders? Start nibbling her neck? _Merlin_.

Nonchalance personified, I sipped my drink and glanced casually around my surroundings. Thankfully, I am also able to rely on her down-to-earth nature and don't have to worry about her wanting to make a spectacle of us.

As far as the conversation went… I was still silent. They must wonder what it is Hermione and I ever talk about… In pondering that, I started to imagine their theoretical speculations, and even, what Granger herself might tell them. She probably doesn't say much to Potter, but to Ginevra on the other hand…

I wonder if… No. Best off not pondering any further.

There was talk between them for a time about something trifling. Wasn't really listening; distracted slightly by the warmth of the person at my side. One may imagine then, in my haze, how I nearly shot into the air when her hand suddenly alighted on my thigh! I looked at it in horror, wondering what in the name of arse she was playing at, but then glanced up to see no one was looking at me. They were looking towards the door with frozen expressions. Hermione's hand was a warning one; there was someone walking down the passageway.

The door opened. Hermione took her hand away and seemed to move to the edge of her seat, as if in preparation…

Potter, meanwhile, was looking pained again.

And yes… it was that gormless fuckwit who appeared. Weasley the Wanker.

Haven't seen or thought much about him really since Christmas. Should have known my luck would only run so far

'All right?' he called as he strolled in unannounced. His breath caught in his throat and his countenance became green-tinged when he saw us all sitting there. 'Merlin…' he choked out faintly. 'This is cosy, isn't it?'

'Hello Ron,' greeted his sister uncomfortably.

'Where was my invite, eh?' he joked; not very sincerely, I thought. His eyes fell on me and I felt the hate roll off him in a wave, but it buffeted me without injury. I honestly couldn't give a flying fuck what Weasley thinks about me. As long as he stays away from Granger and me then we have don't have a problem.

However, I have no faith in him managing to keep his distance. Not if the look he gave his ex-wife was anything to go by. It was a mixture of disbelief and melancholy. I couldn't see her expression. Don't know what she was thinking when he clenched his jaw, muttered that he would leave us to it, and dragged himself from the room.

Part of me, in all honesty, didn't want to know. Especially while Minerva's words still echoed faintly around the recesses of my mind.

'Well, that could have been worse, eh?' muttered Ginevra, in an effort to lighten the mood.

It occurred to me in that moment that Weasley, once upon a time, would have been sitting where I was. He would have sat opposite Potter and worked his way through _pot au feu_ and… _that_ really would have been cosy. No awkward moments. No forced conversation. No discomfort.

I've already been through all this in my head several times, and of course, _socialising_ with Potter is never going to be easy. As for Weasley, well, will just have to grit my teeth for now. No point making a mountain out of a molehill.

Especially as, when Hermione later apologised for his turning up and, in her words, putting a damper on proceedings, there was no evidence as to any sign that she thinks of her ex-husband at all, beyond frustration.

Nearly three months of being involved with a woman has not, by any stretch, managed to restore my self-esteem. Wonder if anything ever will. And so, I shall merely continue to fight (but very often wallow in) these negative thoughts.

Still, who would've thought, eh? Me having dinner with Potter and his wife….

Bit reprehensible, really…

**Wednesday 15th March**

**11:30 — Home.**

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The bank has agreed to lend me the money for the apothecary.

Think part of me was hoping they wouldn't.

**Noon.**

Been looking over the details, and while I now have the means, it's only just enough.

The problem, I fear, is I'm not entirely sure I could manage the repayments on top of the outgoings I currently have. Namely, my current abode. Should have never left Spinner's End. Damn.

So, prospect is buy a business and be occupied… but potentially be homeless.

Could always live in the little office above the shop… What needs have I, after all?

Ha.

This may be immovable stumbling block.

**12:30**

There must be a solution. Am convinced this is an opportunity for me. Who knows—in ten years time I could be distinguished retail magnate. A worldwide brand.

Like hell…

Wouldn't have the energy.

**Friday 16th March**

**18:23 — Home. **

Oh dear.

Granger and me have had a good day. She had the day off and so we went on one of those walks she's fond of. However, am more convinced than ever that she may have an unconscious predilection for danger. Because, surely it couldn't have just been me who anticipated one strong gust of wind might send us both tumbling over the cliff to our death?

'Aren't they beautiful?' she commented, looking down the coastline at the white facades of the Seven Sisters rolling out before her. 'A stunning sight.'

'Well, that's chalk for you,' I murmured to myself, but, ah, she heard me, and looked a little put out.

'I refuse to believe that when you look at them all you see is _chalk_.'

Thought I'd better keep to myself that the only other thing I could see beside chalk was death. Was she oblivious to the memorials littering the cliff top?

'Oh yes, they're very lovely. My breath is well and truly taken away from me…'

A frown cut me off.

'Where's your favourite place to go, then?' she asked as we trekked. 'The place you most love to be?'

My mind went blank. A favourite place on earth, eh? Not sure I know what one of those looks like. And, evidently, my trouble in recalling anywhere I've ever felt calm and tranquil was written all over my face, for the next thing she said was:

'Never mind; we'll make it a point to find you somewhere.'

Ha. Good luck to her.

Still, enjoyed myself and felt she enjoyed herself too. Getting to know her very well, I think. Not sure the opposite may be said; she does most of the talking, after all. Which is fine by me. She gave me a lecture on how the chalk cliffs were formed over thousands and thousands of years, as well as numerous other titbits of fascinating geology-related miscellany. Can't say cliffs have ever been special study of mine, so I listened, slightly amused.

Did, however, think about dryly asking her if this was the nature of conversation she'd employed with Weasley, but felt she might push me off the cliff herself if I did.

Anyway, when we parted, I almost felt high-spirited. _Almost_. And _my_ high-spirited probably has more to do with understated ease than with exuberance or vivaciousness. It is slightly alarming, though, how much I seem to enjoy her bossy, know-it-all, assured temperament. Am I, God forbid, going to be one of those men who enjoy being domineered by women?

Ridiculous… Besides, domineering is not the word I'd apply to her, so…

Wouldn't hurt to think about asserting myself more, though; especially considering what I was driven to do later in the day.

While suffering this uncharacteristic burst of optimism, I told myself to throw caution to the wind, and when I had done precisely that, found myself registering a formal bid for the apothecary! Gah!

Probably _not_ the best time for me to play at being spontaneous… especially when there are certain misgivings to be heeded…

Well, it's done now.

As for stumbling block previously identified. Am sure I shall find a way around it, or of ploughing my way through it. Oh yes.

Am nothing if not resourceful.

**Tuesday 20th March**

**23:30 — Bed.**

Snuck up to Hogwarts today.

I mean this figuratively, of course; there was no actual sneaking involved. If I happened to avoid all sight and sound of the Headmistress, well then, it was a happy coincidence.

Horace let me have free rein in my old office and classroom. There's a hidden panel at the back of my old desk (Horace, I'm sure, has no idea) and I removed from there some notes I once borrowed (stole) from the Dark Lord, back in the day. Might come in handy sometime.

Horace has already discovered my collection of poisons, and, of course, can't sell them, so that's moot.

There were a few of my own books scattered around that I never bothered to reclaim upon leaving Hogwarts. What use were they to me whilst I was shuffling along as a useless bureaucrat?

Went into the Potions store cupboard and undid the wards I'd placed on one of the flagstones. Underneath it was a collection of phials and scrolls of parchment. Most of the concoctions are controlled by the Ministry, unfortunately, but there are some of my own developments which should fall within what is allowed.

Managed to undercut St. Mungo's best with my migraine remedy. At least one professor a week would darken my door, demanding assistance. There are some recipes for potions to remove Dark curses… Not sure what the demand is for these type of substances, post-war; will do further research.

Nicked some pickled creatures; for ambience, you understand.

Of course, don't even have the apothecary yet, but must be prepared. Just in case.

Think I might have heard someone (Minerva) call out my name as I was leaving through the gates… Didn't stop, however; decided it was the wind.

**Thursday 22nd March**

Hmm… have had dreadful thought as to how to work around my money and accommodation issue. It is so dreadful, but now that I've conceived the thought, I cannot get rid of it.

Really should forget it… Doesn't appeal to me one iota.

And yet… would solve my problem, should my offer for the apothecary be accepted.

I shouldn't…

But it's too late. The idea has been planted.

Am idiot.

There must be _another_ way, surely?

Could find somewhere smaller to rent, but my house is already tiny so might as well move into the office above the apothecary.

Humph.

And so… one word:

_Yorkshire_.

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks very much for the reviews. Thanks, also, to Cave Felem for tidying this up.<p> 


	4. April

**The Diary of a Somebody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Wednesday 4th April**

**16:40 — Home.**

Bugger.

Jigger has officially accepted my offer on the apothecary. Just had an Owl confirming it.

Oh bugger.

Am actually in possession of an apothecary. Clearly, he wanted a quick sale, for my offer was, in fact, under the asking price. And possibly, by making a lower offer, subconsciously I'd hoped he'd reject it.

Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.

Can't believe it. What am I going to do now? What have I done? What have I set in motion?

And oh God, haven't got time to dwell. Supposed to be tidying up ready for Granger to come over tonight.

**16:50**

Going to _have_ to move to Yorkshire now.

Humph.

**1:30 — Bed.**

Can't sleep. Can't turn my brain off.

We had a good evening, but I can't stop thinking about the fact I have bought myself an apothecary and I don't even know how to run one.

Will be fine. Can't be difficult. Will soon learn the ropes. But what if I—

Oops. Granger is stirring; think the scratching of my quill is a bit too loud. Have now cast Silencing charm on it.

Still haven't told her what I've done. Wonder what she'll think when she finds out?

Ha.

Definitely can't sleep now.

**Saturday 7th April**

In less than two weeks today I will be in full control of the apothecary. Two weeks from today I may finally stop feeling like useless waste of space. How long have I been out of work? There was that brief stint at Hogwarts, of course, but it was last July that I walked out of my tomb at the Ministry. Who knows what state my brain is in after months—years, really—of monotony and inactivity. Have often felt recently that I'm on the downward slope towards the sorry echelons of dunderheadedness.

One can only hope it is reversible.

Hermione is cooking me dinner tonight. Hope it'll be nice because I'm bloody starving... But… what am I saying? Of course it will be nice; this is Granger I'm talking about, after all.

_Know-it-all_.

No wonder I fear an encroaching sense of dunderheadedness. _I_ can't boil an egg. Well, I can, but I can't make _salmon en croute_. Had to pretend I knew what it was when she announced she was making it for dinner. Seriously debating these days whether to downgrade myself from know-it-all status; she keeps on showing me up. Unknowingly, of course; and she has no idea I'm keeping score.

Gah. There never seems to be an opportunity for me to flaunt _my_ knowledge. But I'll bide my time.

Think it's about due for me to give her my news, as well. Considered not saying anything and just letting her find out by herself; by waiting for her to simply walk past the apothecary and see me in there. Ha! Further consideration, however, led me to the conclusion she would probably not appreciate that method of elucidation.

Will tell her tonight and will enjoy it. Time for _me_ to show off. She cannot be an authority on apothecaries. Simply cannot be.

Can she?

I, on the other hand, will certainly play at being one.

Not very often _I_ have news. Going to make the most of it.

**Sunday 8th April**

**10:05 — Granger's house. Mildly hungover.**

We're both a bit sensitive this morning, but Hermione is looking particularly… rough.

'_Merlin_,' I murmured to myself when she emerged. She heard me and, unfortunately, chose to retaliate by sending me a baleful glare and remarking that I would do well to remember my "unfair twenty year advantage!"

Soon shut me up. Observation: she can be a bit ratty after a bottle of wine and a late night. I curtailed my sardonic suggestion that we try hair of the dog, simply out of consideration for my own safety.

Anyway, she is now gone to restore her equilibrium (wrestle with her hair) and I'm using her absence as an opportunity to transcribe how I finally told her about my recent acquisition. Took my opportunity during dessert, mainly because it took me the first two courses to pluck up the courage and rid myself of the fear she would laugh in my face.

'I have something to tell you,' I announced, probably a bit too gravely judging by the faintly apprehensive expression that appeared on her face.

'Oh?'

Decided not to beat about the bush; prevarication doesn't become me. 'I'm taking over Slug and Jigger's apothecary in Diagon Alley.'

There was only silence following my declaration. She was frozen with her spoon midway to her mouth.

'I beg your pardon?' she muttered eventually.

'In a few days' time, I shall be the new owner of my very own apothecary. I put in an offer and it was accepted.'

It was obvious I'd rendered her dumbfounded, for I've never seen her look so vacant.

She put down her spoon and frowned. 'Is this… Is this another one of your funny little wind-ups?'

_Funny little wind-ups_? Never been so affronted in my life. 'No,' I answered through a clenched jaw. 'It's not.'

'Oh.' Her eyes widened instantly and she smiled. I admit, my affront lessened a bit.

'My,' she said. 'This is a bit of a surprise. I had no idea you were… I mean, I never thought retail would be your particular forte, really.'

! ! ! !

My God. Aren't I the lucky one to have such encouragement on hand?

'I mean to say,' she carried on hurriedly, 'I mean that I never thought it the type of thing you'd like to do.'

Hmm. Thought it best not to point out that I haven't got any experience in this line of work. That I don't actually now how well cut out I may or may not be.

'It's more about potion-making than buying and selling… And that _is_ my forte.' And not yours, I added silently.

'Undoubtedly so…' She shrugged her shoulders in wonder. 'How did you… If it's not too impertinent a question, how did—'

'How did I afford it?'

She nodded.

'With some investment from the bank, of course, and ah, I'm moving out of my house. Couldn't have afforded the repayments to the bank otherwise.' I returned casually to my plate, anticipating what might be coming next.

As expected, she blanched. 'Your house? Do you mean to live above the apothecary? It would be a bit of a squeeze, surely?'

I nodded. 'Very much so; apart from the stock room and an office, there's only one small room above the shop… More of a cubby-hole, really.'

She was dumbfounded again. And she's right, actually; I do enjoy winding her up.

'What on earth are you going to do, Severus?' she asked in a daze. 'You can't live in a… "_cubby-hole_".'

Ha. She clearly thought I'd made a terrible error in judgement. I shrugged casually. 'I'll be fine; if I manage to make a profit, maybe later on I can find a bigger room somewhere else to live in.' I looked at her face and tried not to laugh.

Bit the inside of my lip when she started talking in a pained, patient voice. 'Severus… I feel I should express some reservations about this… venture…'

'Really?'

'Yes… I—' She struggled for words. 'It's just that—'

'Relax,' I interrupted, taking pity on her, and also slightly worried that she _would_ hit upon a legitimate concern. 'I have decided simply to relocate to my father's old house for the time being.'

'Oh? _Oh.__'_She frowned at me and shook her head admonishingly. 'Well, that is more like it. I'm impressed, I must say; didn't think you were this entrepreneurial.'

Impressed, eh? Nice. Maybe I _can_ set about reversing that inferiority complex she gives me.

'Had to do something; something interesting. Challenging, even. The thought I might end up back in the stronghold of the Ministry made me want to die. No offence,' I added dryly.

She smiled.

'And the best bit, of course, is that I won't have to answer to anyone except myself. Too good an opportunity to pass up.' Being my own boss; a dream come true.

'Even if it means going back to Yorkshire?'

She was, of course, referring to my oft-repeated, very real dislike of the place. Am not sure whether this will prove difficult, but should be able to set my feelings aside for the moment. It's just a house, after all. Just a pile of bricks.

'Seems it wasn't too late for my father to finally do something useful for me, after all, eh?'

Not that he actually left a will decreeing a wish that I be the sole recipient of his meagre estate. It's just happenstance I'm his nearest surviving relative. That's comfort for you on a cold night, believe me.

'Well, I certainly won't mind visiting you in Yorkshire,' she said, a bit suggestively. 'Or in your apothecary, for that matter.'

Intriguing. Shall be storing that nugget away for future reference.

It wasn't until we'd removed to a comfier setting, and after I'd imbibed a healthy amount of wine, that I made mention of something else I should have told her with regard to my soon-to-be new living arrangements. We were slouched on her settee, very languorously—not the result of some amorous interlude, unfortunately, but because we'd both rather over-indulged by then (we were celebrating _me_).

'You know I'm moving to Yorkshire?' I slurred.

'Mmm.'

'There's just one _small_ detail that needs ironing out.'

'Oh?'

'Yes; I don't … actually know what state the house is in since I left it last … November, was it? And it's had a terrible winter to contend with since then.'

There was an extended silence, so I glanced to my side to see if she was still awake. She was staring unseeingly into the middle distance; perhaps contemplating my ineffability.

'It may… even be in the sea, for all I know,' I ventured; perversely wanting to fan the flames, it seems.

I looked away, expecting she might get reproachful at my, probably, _too_ nonchalant approach to serious matters. But instead, I felt movement at my shoulder and I soon heard her burst out laughing. I decided to laugh as well, thinking that if I arrived in Yorkshire to find the back end of the house collapsed into the sea, the irony would just be too perfect for words.

But in reality, not very funny at all.

So there we are. Didn't make it home last night. Again, not as the result of an amorous interlude, but because I fell asleep in a drunken stupor. Am beginning to think this girl isn't good for me.

Once we're sufficiently recovered, Granger and I have planned a reconnaissance to Withernsea. Am fairly confident the house will be habitable, once a few spells have been thrown around the place…

Because in all seriousness, that room above the apothecary does not bear thinking about.

It's more of a cell, than a room.

**15:30 — Withernsea. E. R. of Yorkshire. **

Am here, then.

We arrived a few hours ago, and when we appeared on the cliff-top, straight into a gust of wind, I looked apprehensively towards the house, exhaling with relief when I saw it was still there—seemingly intact. The grey forbidding stone; the partially dilapidated windows that rattled in the wind… all there.

Of course, it hadn't quite escaped the winter storms unscathed. We went around the back to find a few more metres of the garden had collapsed into the sea below.

'Looks like we might be needing a few spells here,' Granger observed with a frown, taking as many steps as she dared towards the edge.

The Locking charms I'd left on the door were intact and, after undoing them, I shoved the key into the lock. With a bit of a push, we were inside. After a cursory survey, I decided the house was fine, apart from the musty smell, the huge patch of damp in the kitchen, a leak in the roof, the dust, the draughts, and a rather alarming looking crack that ran up the length of one wall. Sure it wasn't there when I left last year.

Made my old house in Spinner's End seem like a palace.

'Will be fine after a bit of a clean and a bit of heat in the place to dry it out.'

A faint grimace belied her words. Funny how she doesn't seem so enthusiastic about this house anymore, isn't it? Now she sees just what a shit-tip it really is.

She started throwing some charms about, so I decided to have a look at the upstairs. Was no worse than the downstairs, at least. Opened the door to my father's old room but didn't linger; there's still something a bit eerie about it. I certainly shall not be making use of it; I'll stick to the room I had while he was alive. It might be smaller, but I don't care.

Later on, when the tide had gone out, we made our way precariously down onto the sand and cast some enchantments on the cliff-face. They'll slow down the erosion, but I won't be able to rely on them long-term. Don't want a herd of geologists descending upon me in a fit of ecstasy after the coastline either side of the house has eroded away, but my bit of cliff is still standing strong.

Can't say I'm thrilled to be returning to this dump, but in a few day's time I shall be completing the handover from Jigger Junior and I shall have a reason to get up in the morning.

**Wednesday 11th April**

**18:00 — Yorkshire.**

Have started moving my possessions into the house, feeling the quicker I do it, the quicker I can get used to it.

However… Hermione is working late and I'm stuck here on my own, with only the rush of the wind and the noise of the sea for company.

Seagulls are doing my head in, as well. Already.

Humph.

**Friday 13th April**

Was struck with inspiration today.

Have still been thinking about what revenge I can have on Granger for dragging me to dinner with the Potters', and I managed to recall something Potter once said about her contempt for Quidditch. (Beginning to wonder whether Weasely developed an inferiority complex… Best off ignoring that probability, I think…)

Thought it would be easy; had it all worked out.

I was reading the back pages of the _Prophet_, and I commented carefully to her that I hadn't seen a good game of Quidditch in a long time—that I fancied seeing one. I queried if she would be so good as to accompany me to one such game on the weekend.

Do you know what she bloody well said? Bearing in mind that _I _sacrificed my principles and my integrity to partake in socialising with her little friends, with very little resistance, I might add.

_She_, however, looked at me, frowned slightly, and without shame, said: 'Actually, Severus, I'm really not a fan of Quidditch. Do you mind if I pass?'

! ! ! !

_Well_.

Now I know where I stand.

**Sunday 15th April**

Not long until I take over the apothecary. Am brimming with ideas. Can't remember when I last had ideas. Being Ministry automaton left little room for creativity. Similarly sixteen years as a Hogwarts fixture.

Am not the only one with ideas, either. Granger keeps Flooing me with her epiphanies and moments of inspiration. She's lucky that I like her, otherwise I would have blocked my Floo to her by now.

Still, things seem to be going surprisingly well, lately.

Big mistake there to have written that. Expect my old friend Sod is listening and plotting his revenge even as I write this.

**20:45**

Should I re-brand the apothecary?

Slug and Jigger's has, of course, been around for generations and everyone knows what and where it is. Has a good reputation for quality products. Jigger junior has said I'm welcome to keep using the name.

And, actually, I think it would be sensible to keep it so for the time being. I'm not sure my name can inspire consumer trust. Can't imagine why.

Probably best if the news I have taken over the apothecary filters down gradually—test the waters a bit.

Have just had terrible vision of the apothecary being boycotted owing to my presence.

Wonderful.

**Tuesday 17th April**

**11:30 — Leaky.**

Just had a meeting with Jigger Junior.

He's given me the list of clients that Slug and Jigger conduct regular business with. He wrote to each of them detailing his plans to sell, and it now falls upon me to introduce myself as the new owner.

Hmm. Not sure how well that'll go down.

Hogwarts, is, of course, on the list, and I've already drafted my letter to Minerva.

This is what I've Owled to her:

_Dear Minerva,_

_Am new owner of Slug and Jigger's apothecary in Diagon Alley. _

_Severus_

Would give my left arm to see her face when she reads it. Naturally, my missives to my other clients will not be so brusque; can't risk alienating them _all_. Not in one fell swoop, anyway.

**Friday 19th April**

**9:30 — Diagon Alley. Apothecary. **

This marks the day when I turn into forty-six year oldformer Death Eater, former spy, former Potions Master, former Defence Against the Dark Arts Master, former left-on-the-scrap-heap-civil-servant, of little significance, and current apothecary owner, seeing woman half his age.

Not many can say that about themselves.

So here I am. Everything has been ticked, signed and formalised, and I've now been open for half an hour. No one has yet entered. Hmm. Have plenty to keep me occupied, however. Will do some replenishing, I think.

**10:15**

Had my first customer, but I think my presence startled them. Believe they were former student. They came in, pretended to look at some owl claws, and then left. Basically, they came in, spotted me and then executed an immediate u-turn.

Hmm.

**18:00 — Home. Knackered.**

Seems I've forgotten what hard work feels like. My feet are protesting heavily and it's only been one day.

So, first day of business concluded with, then. Was OK. Everything went smoothly. The customers I had weren't very bothersome; the ones who had the guts to stay, anyway.

Hermione came to visit during her lunch hour. If I'm not mistaken, her nose wrinkled slightly on entering the shop. Is the smell really that bad?

We went through to the stock room, where I put the kettle on. Naturally, I threw a few wards at the front door first, to alert me of anyone coming in; no one will be helping themselves to handfuls of eye of newt when my back's turned, oh no. Or more pertinently, making off with the takings. Ha; that would be embarrassing.

'Merlin,' Hermione said, taking her tea and having a nose about. 'What on earth is in all these boxes?'

She was referring to the fact that the room is mostly filled up with piles and piles of rather unprepossessing boxes and chests.

'Non-perishable items, mostly,' I replied. 'But those, ah, dusty ones at the back, I haven't actually looked inside yet.'

Shouldn't have mentioned that. Curiosity dawned over her face and she looked at the boxes wistfully. 'You haven't looked yet?'

'No…'

Her cup was set down and she was weaving her way to the back of the room. God. I really should be grateful she managed to find a reserve of self control when she discovered my unattended diary that time. Unless she lied to me about reading it, of course...

'Ugh, it really is awfully dusty in here, shall I—'

'No magic allowed in here, I'm afraid,' I interposed. Not a good idea to use magic in a roomful of potentially volatile items; especially when the majority of the contents are unknown.

She wasn't put off. She was on her knees next, rummaging through a chest. 'Boring…' she muttered. 'Just empty jars.' She moved along to the next one. 'Ooh, this one looks interesting; it's full of books and diaries.'

Right up her street, then.

She moved along the row like some bloody magpie.

'Oh, look at this. I can't work out what it is…'

She was holding up a metal contraption that had evidently seen better days. 'Oh, that,' I said smoothly, 'is used for disembowelling large animals.'

A loud clatter sounded and she straightened with a flinch, wiping her hands frantically on her robes.

Ha. So gullible.

And still she didn't seem put off. She approached another pile of boxes. But she only had the lid open when she paused. 'Did you hear that noise?'

I'd heard nothing. I approached her quietly, while she peered tentatively into a darkened corner of the room.

'Do you think there's…?'

I brushed my fingers up her spine. 'Rats?' I supplied, as she squeaked with surprise and flashed me a frown. 'Probably.'

She shivered. 'Lovely.' Then she sighed loudly, looked at the remaining boxes and then at her watch. 'Suppose I should think about making my way back to work.'

I raised an eyebrow. Normally she, sickeningly, always relishes going to work.

She shrugged her shoulders with a smile. 'I want to stay and play shop.'

Wasn't sure whether to be amused or offended. But I think I know her well enough to say she was being more sincere than patronising.

'You can come and play shop with me on Saturdays, remember?'

Huge downside having to work on Saturdays. Ugh. Not looking forward to that.

'Working on my day off? It'll have to be worth my while…'

'So much for altruism.'

She smirked and then caught sight of her robes, the bottoms of which were dusty and trailing cobwebs.

'You can cast a Cleaning charm out in the front, if you like; everything's warded out there.'

'Oh, I quite like them,' she commented with a twinkle. 'My colleagues will wonder what I've been up to in my lunch hour. Not often I give them something to talk about.'

Unfortunately, or fortunately, I don't know, I was suddenly enveloped in a sensation of high-spirits again. It's getting beyond the joke now. Going to have to put a stop to it.

When she reached up to kiss me on the cheek goodbye (neither of us worry about greetings or farewells anymore) I decided I wanted a bit extra. As it turned out, it was probably for the best when my wards suddenly sounded. Things were in danger of escalating far beyond the realms of propriety. Still, we both scowled in the direction of the front of the shop at the intrusion.

'Shame,' my companion murmured, gathering her composure. 'We really could have given my colleagues something to talk about.'

I took back my hands. 'I could always close up and you could Owl saying you've fallen ill…'

She laughed. 'You've been in business for _five_ hours.'

Fair point.

I brushed a hand over my mouth, not that Hermione wears much lipstick in the day, but thought it better to be safe than sorry, and went to see who was there.

'_Minerva_,' I observed with some amount of surprise.

She stood there expectantly. Very crafty of her. Had I known she was coming, I _would_ have closed up early.

Still, the intervening time has dampened our discord and, I suppose, is mostly (_mostly_) forgotten about now. We'll not talk about it again, in any case—just ignore it like we always do. We don't do apologies to each other, because neither of us likes to admit we were ever in the wrong.

'Well, well, well,' she commented, eyeing me sharply.

'What on earth are you doing here?' I asked, feeling rattled despite myself. For some idiotic reason, I couldn't get the idea that I had bright red lipstick all over my face out of my head. 'Didn't think you knew one end of a Flobberworm from the other.'

Her mouth thinned. 'Oh, I had to see this to believe it.' She assessed her surroundings. 'I'm impressed; never would have imagined you in this environment.'

Oh, where have I heard that before?

Before I could say anything, Hermione came rushing out from the back room and I bit the inside of my mouth. She couldn't just stay still, could she? No. She had to come out looking flushed and dishevelled, exclaiming, 'Minerva! How lovely to see you!'

Two pink spots of colour appeared in Minerva's cheeks as she looked between the two of us.

'I'm sorry I can't stop,' Hermione continued, coming out from behind the counter. 'But I really need to get back to the Ministry.'

'Hermione, dear,' said Minerva in a pained voice. 'Your robes…'

Hermione paused at the door and I could tell she was dying to laugh. 'Ah, thank you…' She brandished her wand and then disappeared outside.

'It's all right, Minerva,' I announced, before an awkward silence could descend. 'You needn't worry.'

'Excuse me?'

'I'm well aware I'm running an apothecary; not a knocking shop.'

Ha! Ha! She shook her head, displeased (and embarrassed) with my humour, and told me she despaired of me. Truly.

Oh well. Job done.

**Tuesday 23rd April**

**15:00 — Apothecary.**

Hmm.

Have just been reading the _Daily Prophet_, for my sins, and well… _Weasley_ is currently being castigated for his poor performance in the Cannons' match this past weekend. His mind, apparently, was not in the game.

That Weasley's mediocrity is showing through is of no surprise to me. I expected nothing else.

However, it leads me to wonder what his mind _was_ focused on instead. And, unfortunately, I believe I may very well know the answer.

It's something to bear in mind, anyway...

**Friday 26th April**

**18:30 — Leaky. **

There was a rather interesting occurrence today. Was refilling a jar of spleens when the door opened and a voice called out saying, 'Hello, Severus; long time no see.'

It was _Lucinda_. I turned around to see her standing there with a smile on her face. Any surprise I felt at her sudden presence I kept to myself.

'Indeed. Good afternoon,' I replied slowly, removing my hands from the spleens and wiping them on a cloth. 'I trust you are well?'

She nodded an assurance. 'I was just passing through the alley, and I had heard you had taken over the apothecary, so decided to pop in.'

'I see,' was all I said, slightly unsure as to whether to believe this or not. But then, as much as I ever tried to prove to the contrary, she always appeared to be rather without guile.

Half wish Hermione could have been there. It's surely not fair that I have to put up with Weasley, but she has no one from my past to avoid? Let's face it, though; you'd have to have even less self-esteem than I do to be jealous of someone a person went out with only _twice_.

'Think you've really done well. This must be far better than being stuck in that dungeon in the Ministry!' She rolled her eyes and grimaced, and I took from that that she must still be stuck there herself. 'Does it get very busy in here?'

'Fairly.' Not really.

'I thought it must. You're in a good position really, not many other apothecaries around,' she replied as she perused a shelf of ready-made potions.

'Too many bloody Quidditch shops and broom shops popping up, that's why,' I spat with disgust.

She smiled. 'Definitely; but they're, for lack of a better word, 'sexy' in this day and age, aren't they? Everyone wants to be seen with the latest must-have. Not many want to get their hands dirty anymore.'

She picked up a phial to look at, but I was frozen to the spot, oddly stunned. Felt like I'd just been bludgeoned over the head and the blunt implement used was precisely that term '_sexy_'. Comprehension was dawning all around me. Dazed, I looked down at my hands which, only moments ago, had been rummaging through a container of entrails and still bore the grimy signs of it. I looked down at the overcoat I had on over my robes and counted the stains I'd managed to collect throughout the day. I sniffed the air to detect the particular smell of the apothecary; I could still identify it, despite my familiarity with it, and I thought about how it might follow me home.

And then I thought of Granger and how she'd wrinkled her nose distastefully on first entering the shop. I had a subsequent vision of her turning green as I tried to kiss her—me and my accompanying stench of animal parts, unmentionable fluids, plants, and a whole host of other distasteful components.

I know she was enthusiastic the other day, but that was because it was my first day in business. It was new and novel, and I was hardly into the swing of things. Soon, in time, it'll be commonplace and ordinary and no matter how much I blast myself with Cleaning charms, I'll be permanently gritty and grimy.

Lucinda is right. Why did I never consider it? Being an apothecary isn't sexy. Being an Auror is sexy. Being a Potions master is probably sexy. Hell, even being a left-on-the-scrap-heap civil servant, of little significance, is going to be sexier than a man who has been bottling bile all day!

Don't even know what attracts Granger to me in the first place; can't be much, but whatever it is, I might just be starting to methodically undo it.

Fuck.

Nothing ever goes right.

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks very much for reading and thanks to Cave Felem : )<p> 


	5. May

**The Diary of a Somebody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Tuesday 1st May**

**18:30 — Home.**

It's raining and the wind is blowing fiercely. Have arrived home from work into a typically horrible Yorkshire day, then. Coming back to this house every day never fails to bring my mood downwards.

Hate the damn place.

Not sure whether it's irrationality on my part, or whether it's just… Oh, I don't know. Whatever it is, being in here on my own always has a sobering effect on me, and for someone as prone to pensiveness as I am, it's not a good mix.

The Ogden's is open already—I hope Hermione doesn't pop by unexpectedly. Shall hide the bottle beside my chair just in case.

I think the effect the house has on me now is worse than when my father was alive. Perhaps there was less to notice when he was shouting and performing, and, of course, back then I had the caveat that my habitation of the place was only temporary.

And temporary though it may be again, I nevertheless have no idea when I shall be able to leave this place for good.

Maybe then, I've made a mistake…

Or maybe I should just put a sock in it and stop moaning.

**Friday 4th May**

**16:00 — Diagon Alley.**

Argh!

Dear Lord.

_Potter_ came into the shop today. Unfortunately, there was no time for me to duck under the counter or throw myself behind some boxes in the store room. Instead, had to sit on my stool with resignation as he gave the surroundings the once-over that seems obligatory for those I'm acquainted with. Grates on me to no end. Not as if they've never stepped foot in here before, is it?

'Potter,' I greeted, with just the right amount of menace. 'What can I get for you? Deadly nightshade, perhaps? I also have some nice vegetable alkaloids out the back…'

He looked at me blankly.

'I need some Pepper-up potion, actually, Snape—for the kids.'

_The kids_. Dear God. I'll never be able to hear that phrase from him and think it all right. I jerked my head towards the Pepper-up and he reached up for a few phials, bringing them to me.

Was there anything satisfying about taking Potter's money? Well, yes, in that I accidentally-on-purpose over-charged him, but as he handed over the coins, a part of my pride, irrationally, rebelled against the idea of his custom. I admit, it's still a huge struggle sometimes not to see his father before me, regardless of the passage of time and events.

'Fancy coming round to Grimmauld Place for a drink, sometime?'

Yes. This sentence actually came from Potter's mouth, no matter how much I try to convince myself I imagined it.

I stared at him incomprehensibly. 'Is this a wind-up?'

He shook his head slowly. 'No… You've been seeing Hermione for, what…? Is it five months now? Thought it might be about time we got to know each other a bit better.'

…

'Potter,' I nearly spluttered, my voice shadowed with despair. 'You said it yourself; I'm seeing Hermione, not _you_, however much you might wish it otherwise.'

He blanched immediately and I nearly felt sorry for him. _Nearly_, mind.

'I just thought—'

'I don't think so, Potter,' I stated firmly.

There. This was me finally asserting myself. I don't have to put myself through these things. Fully realise me asserting myself to Potter isn't really solving the problem of me saying no to Granger, but…

Well, if she has anything to say about my behaviour to Potter, she can simply like it or lump it.

I'm not bothered.

**16:45**

Hope Potter hasn't mentioned it to her.

**18:00**

Closing up now and will next set about blasting myself with a litany of Cleaning charms. Meeting Hermione in the Leaky straight after work. Think I'm managing quite well to destroy the evidence of my working day.

Of course, there's nothing I can do if she chooses to visit me in the workplace. As happened yesterday, when she came in to find me weighing out piles of Mooncalf dung.

The smile on her face vanished as she reached the counter, and she then retreated backwards several steps. I had gloves on, of course, but…they've seen better days; probably why I saw her eye my hands with an element of distaste.

But then her expression turned wry. 'Let's just say I'm glad you weren't wearing those this morning.'

I was pleased by her humour. 'As I recall, these gloves weren't the only things I wasn't—'

The tinkle of the doorbell cut me off. Scandalising Minerva is one thing, but I don't need to rely on her for my bread and butter, do I?

**Sunday 6th May**

**17:00**

Hmm. Have possibly made a mistake today. Another one. I know what this is; I'm getting too comfy—too complacent.

Just when I was beginning to think I got away with fobbing off Potter, I was thrown into the deep end again. In an effort not to be cornered once more; ambushed; taken unawares—forced into something I'm very confident I don't want to do, I've possibly cut off my nose to spite my face.

This, indeed, was the perfect opportunity to continue asserting myself, as I've been waiting for, but… maybe I should have ignored it, after all.

Am in Granger's house. She made me dinner earlier and, on a side note, that is something I can get used to: Weasley really must be kicking himself. Unfortunately, it is precisely _he_ who is responsible for my current predicament. Hermione is elsewhere in the house, organising her workload for tomorrow, so I'm writing this now; suspect my attention will be elsewhere later…

Unlike previous occasions when she's sprung her delightful propositions on me, (usually whilst I'm otherwise occupied with eating) she waited this time until we'd finished. I note she did ply me with a significant glass of wine when I sat down on the settee, because I even remarked suspiciously, 'Hang on, it's only four o'clock…'

'But it's a Sunday,' she countered pleasantly, settling down.

I was suddenly overcome with foreboding and began preparing myself to say 'no'. Whatever she wanted, I would say just '_no_'.

_No_.

She cleared her throat. 'Um, it's… Well, it's Arthur and Molly's thirty-fifth wedding anniversary next week…'

My insides clenched with dread.

'Will you come with me?' Her voice stumbled a bit, admittedly, as she spoke.

I let out a sigh, which was a mistake, because she immediately got huffy.

'Just say if you don't want to come; it's fine,' she remarked, crossing her arms.

I told myself to be honest. I told myself to just say _I don't want to go_. I dislike the thought of socialising with that crowd. And it's no reflection on them, really; it's _me_ that doesn't fit in (and never will).

'I don't think it's a good idea,' I announced bluntly. 'I'm sure I'd only make people feel uncomfortable.'

I thought this to be something even she could not refute, but no, she turned to me and immediately scoffed, '_Why_?'

I gave her a look which told her she was being deliberately obtuse.

'I don't see why you need me to be there,' I muttered, becoming self-conscious when she only watched me appraisingly.

Silence stretched between us for a time and it was awkward. I'm afraid there are times, even this far along, when I'm suddenly overly-aware of the differences between us. I feel as though I step out of myself sometimes, and see us both for what we are; _different_. Different in age; in temperament; in our social circles (I can pretend I have one). And I think she must feel it too. She _must_. She must have felt it when we had dinner at Grimmauld Place, and umpteen other times as well.

And in these moments I wonder… What am I doing? How did I get here? How did _I _get to be in this situation with this young woman? For her, she must substitute with 'this old man'.

It's a fleeting moment, admittedly. The mind rushes to reassure; tells you it doesn't matter. You tell yourself to forget about it.

But I wonder if these moments will ever go away…? Maybe they should be paid greater heed…?

'I'm a cow, aren't I?' she suddenly mumbled, startling me.

'How did you work that one out?'

'Well… I'm sure I'm a bit of a nag, sometimes.'

The expression on her face was distant and I wondered if this is something Weasley once told her. I can't be certain; she's never talked of her marriage at all. I thought I was grateful for that, but now I wonder whether I'm actually disadvantaged by this lack of information.

Why hasn't she ever mentioned anything about it? In fact, I think she told me more about Weasley when we were mere acquaintances than she does now. Is this my fault?

Unfortunately, my meandering thoughts delayed what should have been an immediate refutation of her being a nag. She put down her glass and smiled.

'Don't worry about it.'

That's when she got up to see to her work. I opened my mouth to say something positive, but I'd missed the opportunity, really. And now I'm not sure if she's miffed or not—if she's miffed with me, or with herself.

Am I being unreasonable about the Weasleys? I don't know. But I do know I cannot go to the Burrow. It's one thing to have dinner with Potter and his wife, but how on earth can I step into a house full of Weasleys?

Too much has happened.

For God's sake, even if I wasn't who I am, even if I was just some random bloke she'd met at work, these are her former _in-laws_; it would hardly be a prospect for me to jump at.

And that's the crux, really; her _ex_-_husband_ will be there. The bastard—

**17:23**

She just came into the room to fetch some folders. She quirked her mouth at me and my diary, so she can't be that pissed off with me.

Really don't like having attention drawn to my diary… Think I'll put it away for the night.

**Monday 7****th**** May**

**12:39 — Work.**

Matter of the Weasleys' anniversary and my refusal to attend has not been pressed any further. Think I'm disappointed, to be honest.

I'm an arse. No other way to put it.

How on earth does she put up with me?

_Why_ on earth, for that matter?

Why...?

**Wednesday 9th May**

**20:00**

Received Owl from Minerva regarding her birthday celebrations, which shall commence later this month. Can't believe that's come around again already. Last year I was a downtrodden, melancholic grump who had to resort to getting sloshed with a half-goblin and a half-giant in order to enjoy myself.

But.. why do I feel this year won't be any different? Even taking my new circumstances into account.

I would have done so anyway, but with the Burrow incident still in mind, I was rather more hasty about asking Hermione if she would like to join me in attending the party in the Three Broomsticks.

I wasn't disappointed when her face lit up and she replied: 'I'd love to!'

It was only later that I felt any misgivings. Think enough time has now passed that any clever remarks from my former colleagues will be at a minimum. Won't hold my breath, however.

'What should I get for a gift?' Granger asked. 'Anything she particularly likes?'

I looked at her blankly. 'How should I know?' Thought it best not to mention the flea collar I bought her last year.

She rolled her eyes sarcastically. 'Sorry; I suppose twenty-plus years of knowing someone _would_ seem significant to someone of my age.'

I glared at her immediately, but she was suddenly hidden behind the _Daily Prophet_. And it was shaking.

'Excuse me while I don't fall about laughing.'

She threw the paper away and got to her feet, chuckling to herself. 'Too sensitive; that's your trouble.'

She rushed out of the room before I could react. Sensitive? Ha!

As if.

**20:40**

Well, all right; I'm a _little_ bit sensitive about the extra years I have on her.

**Saturday 12th May**

**20:00 — Apothecary. Diagon Alley.**

Tonight is the night the Weasley's are celebrating their wedding anniversary. Have been in foul mood all day. Some old man sent a jar of powdered bicorn horn to the floor this afternoon, and it was all I could do not to shout 'Argh! _Idiot_!' at the top of my voice.

Had it not been for that swift pit-stop in the Leaky at lunch-time, there may not have been an Apothecary left for me to run.

It's only now I realise I've lately spent all my weekends in the company of… her.

And now the shop is shut up; Diagon Alley is deserted, but I haven't been able to bring myself to go back to that hovel in Yorkshire.

Which is plainly ridiculous… It's all ridiculous, but…

Even so, I know that I shall sit here, cursing myself at length, imagining her enjoying herself, picturing Weasley slobbering over her…

Feels terribly like jealousy…

No stranger am I to that emotion. I'm not so much of a jealous disposition that I fail to recognise what it is, but I've learned that rationalising it doesn't always free you from it.

She's never given me any reason not to trust her. That's rational. That's the truth.

But, actually, is jealousy over her socialising with her ex-husband and his family that _ir_rational? The husband she's, in fact, known since she was a child.

Seems a perfectly normal response to me. But that I even have doubts in first place makes me wonder if, perhaps, I don't trust her, after all. More pertinently, that I _can't_ trust her, even if I want to, and I do. I'm sure that I do.

Possibly, I can't trust anyone, when it matters.

I doubt myself too much, I fear, to believe in anyone else. And I think she deserves much more than that.

I don't know… Think I'm probably too old for this rubbish…

**Sunday 13th May**

Was rudely awoken by a loud noise in the small hours of this morning, and it must have been loud to permeate the leftover haze from the whisky I'd consumed in the hours previously.

It was the sound of a loud thump and a muffled curse, from _within_ my bedroom, and it, understandably, sent me flying upright with my wand in hand. For a brief moment, I thought my father had come back to haunt me, but then I saw in the darkness the contours of some familiarly bushy hair.

'What the _hell_?'

'Oh; did I wake you?'

'No; but your accompanying herd of bloody elephants did.'

'Sorry,' she said, not sounding sorry at all, and then throwing herself heavily onto the bed with a sigh.

I waited to see if anything else was forthcoming, but there was nothing. 'Are you drunk?' I asked, wondering if she was already sleeping.

'No, no,' she replied with a muffled slur, repeating the phrase superfluously about three times, I might add.

'You've moved in without telling me, then?'

Another muffled slur of 'No, no…'

'How was the party?'

'No, no…'

Disgraceful behaviour.

**11:00**

Hadn't expected her to turn up here after the party. Thought she would have gone home. Thought she might even stay at the Burrow all night… (What a delightful imagining that had been).

After my self-pitying thoughts last night, was concerned how I might feel on seeing her. I wondered whether I'd feel suspicious of her; frustrated; doubtful… paranoid.

I don't feel those things at the moment.

Which makes me wonder what it is I do feel...

Marshalling my burning curiosity into polite interest, I asked her, when she was sensible, how her night had been. She replied airily, 'Oh, all right. Yours?'

Ha.

If only she knew.

**Tuesday 15th May**

Have been nearly a month in the retail business. Sales haven't been spectacular but I'm afloat; that's all that matters for now. Must say that I've learned a lot about myself recently. Have learned, for instance, I'm ill-equipped with the requisite amount of tolerance I now understand is needed for the job. I've lost count of the number of times I've been close to hexing some irritating customer, or even just insulting them with a few put-downs.

But honestly, who could blame me? One has to wonder where some people have come from.

'Where's your moonstone?' someone asked me the other day. 'I've looked but I can't find it.'

And they actually have the cheek to look at you with accusation. As if you've hidden it _just_ to spite them.

'Well, you've clearly not looked hard enough, because it's right in front of you, you idiot.'

That is what I should very much like to say to such people. Instead, I just point and grunt.

And I simply cannot abide those time-wasters who bag up a few items, decide they don't want them, and then just dump them down wherever they feel like! How hard is it to put something back where one has found it? I make it a point to catch these people out. I spot them at fifty paces; they stand around with a phial in hand, realise they no longer want it, look shifty-eyed for a moment, and then…

'Excuse me,' I say calmly. 'You got that from over there.'

'Ah yes,' they squeak sheepishly.

Lazy bloody sods. I don't pay myself nearly enough to run around picking up after them like some bloody nursemaid.

**Thursday 17th May**

**19:00 — Pub. Three whiskies down.**

Weasley the Wanker came in for some headache powders today. He's lucky they're pre-packed, otherwise I would have slipped something extra into them.

'Snape,' he said stiffly, with a face so twisted with scorn it looked painful.

I couldn't even bring myself to say anything in return. I can say here that I actually felt a bit wrong-footed by his sudden presence. He, however, certainly wouldn't have known this was the case. I was prepared to let him pay for his items and then let him go without another word. If he was someone with any sense, he would have taken this opportunity with gratitude.

Weasley, however, patently doesn't have any sense; if he had, he wouldn't have an ex-wife for _me_ to see.

After he'd paid, he looked me in the eye and said, 'Pity you were unable to join us last weekend. Still, I expect you're going to Hermione's parents' this Saturday for her father's birthday. That'll be nice for you. Give my regards to them, eh?'

He smirked as he left.

He smirked because he must know that Hermione hasn't mentioned her father's birthday. He must know she hasn't told her parents about me.

I assume this is the case, but, actually, I've never asked. She's mentioned her parents now and again, of course, but I've never… shown an interest, I suppose. I know why _I've_ never pushed the matter—because I'd prefer to pretend they don't exist, along with Potter, his family, the Weasleys, her friends…

There's a lot of things I'd prefer to pretend don't exist, in fact…

Still, it's been five months, and even to me that seems a long time for her not to have brought the issue up.

I can only conclude she is wary of informing them of her situation; uncertain of how they'll react.

Or… Maybe she doesn't feel there's anything to tell. I sometimes wonder… We never seem to talk about our… About what's going on…

Bah.

Is it any wonder there's this uncertainty when I'm incomprehensible over the matter even in writing? It's pathetic.

_I'm_ pathetic.

**Friday 18th May**

**18:45 — Home.**

Hermione came in on her lunch break today to tell me she would be meeting her parents tomorrow, but made no mention of her father's birthday. Is Weasley lying? If he is, I can't see where it would get him.

I should have brought it up with her. I should tell her about Weasley's visit. I should sort it out with her. But… I'm weak enough to shrug it off, ignore it, for the sake of keeping things as they are. Not going to use the 'h' word, because it's not in my vocabulary, but I can say I'm not sure I've ever been this… at ease before. Why would I want to spoil it?

No doubt I'm going about this all wrong. Still, how am I supposed to know these things, what with the string of non-existent relationships I have behind me?

Maybe I should head to the bookshop again…

As if.

**Tuesday 29th May**

**13:50 — Apothecary.**

Been thinking about Hermione's parents a lot lately. I asked her, when I saw her on the weekend, how they were. She said, 'Oh, fine, thank you; never better.'

She was entirely oblivious to any underlying motive on my part, and, of course, I should have used the chance to push the matter further. But I didn't. Instead, I tried to deduce how they might react.

React to the idea of their daughter, their only daughter, seeing a man, a man with twenty years on her, who was once her teacher; her, let's face it, most disliked and distrusted teacher...

Oh God. Seeing it written in plain English... Even _I_ think it's terrible...

And that's without even going into my other... credentials.

If I were her, I wouldn't tell them either.

**Friday 25th May**

Dreading tomorrow. Don't know why, really. Hermione seems eager about visiting Hogsmeade and seeing some of her old teachers.

That's probably it. Why should it be any less awkward amongst my acquaintances than amongst hers?

Hope Minerva can keep it zipped this time. Last thing I need is for her to start preaching after a night on the hard stuff.

Ugh. Busy day running around picking up customers' crap to be followed by frivolity in the Three Broomsticks.

Hate frivolity.

**Sunday 27th May**

**01:15—Home. Alone. Pissed off. **

What a God-awful night. What a flaming _God-awful _night! From start to finish it was a complete and utter write-off. And it all began before I'd even made it to Hogsmeade.

Am not amused.

In fact, hours after the incident, I'm still angry. Have accidentally snapped three quills already in trying to transcribe this down. Standing in the garden and unleashing a barrage of spells isn't satisfying when there's no target to aim them at.

Just when going out with Granger was beginning to seem normal to me; when the apprehension I'm apt to feel, the self-consciousness, was starting to lessen, this night has been a regression in the extreme. And it wasn't even the fault of my old colleagues and their pedestrian attempts at teasing.

I travelled through the Floo to Hermione's house tonight, in order to Apparate with her to Hogsmeade. She was still upstairs finishing her primping when I arrived, so I waited in the living room for her. I turned my attention to her cat, and it was while I was thus occupied that the fucking fire glowed green and guess whose fucking head was in the fucking flames?

_Weasley's_.

'You there, Hermione?' he called out.

'No,' I murmured softly, moving into view, 'but _I_ am.'

His head reared back fractionally, but I saw in his face, from the slight curl of his lip, that he was almost pleased to find me there.

Before there was chance to say anything further, a clattering sounded down the stairs and Hermione burst through the door, looked vaguely frustrated by the tableau presented to her.

'Ron—what do you want?'

'Just want to talk to you about James's upcoming birthday party.'

As if.

The bastard did this on purpose. I bet he knew Granger and me were going to Hogsmeade tonight. He's been sticking his nose in left, right and centre. There's only _one_ thing he wants, and it's definitely not to talk about birthday parties.

What I want to know why the fuck she has a direct Floo connection with her cheat of an ex-husband? Hadn't realised they were on such… _friendly_ terms. Kept that quiet, hasn't she?

'Sorry about that,' she said awkwardly, when Weasley had finally pissed off. Not before agreeing a time to 'meet and discuss,' mind.

I shrugged and turned back to stroking the cat, in a huge effort to clear the red haze around me. 'Just a Floo-call,' I said through an immobile jaw.

I would have bitten my tongue out before saying anything more on the subject. It was killing me, but by Merlin I can find reserves of self-control when I truly want to.

Just a Floo-call? Ha. I'll give that tosspot a fucking _Floo_-_call_ if he carries on.

I knew on the face of it there was no need for me to dwell on it. I knew if I said anything she would get shirty over what she would deem, and perhaps rightly so, 'nothing'.

Unfortunately… I just couldn't forget it, even though I knew how unreasonable it was. What made me feel worse was that she clearly wasn't bothered. As soon as we reached the pub, she was all smiles and laughter and ease… And I… All I could see was Weasley's smirking face.

Of course, seeing Minerva only made her words from several weeks ago drift to the front of my mind again.

'_She's only recently come out of a marriage, Severus. A _marriage_.'_

I know Weasley hurt her... But what do I know about the bonds of marriage? The only example I have to look to is my parents…

Enough said.

There must be something that lingers... And she, clearly, hasn't severed her ties with him completely. Perhaps she's forgiven him... I'm not sure I want to ask.

So, I tried to make as much effort as I could, but it was lacklustre. After the fact, I wish I could have roused myself more fully. And my mood must have been noticeable to others. Even when Rolanda leaned towards us and roguishly asked, "So, when's the wedding?" I felt no retort come to mind. I was just lost in a mire of self-doubt.

Hermione had a response ready-prepared, it seemed. She smiled deprecatingly and remarked, far more sardonically than is her want: 'Oh, been there, done that—got the _decree absolute_ to show for it!'

I stared into my drink.

'By the way, what is going on with Mr Weasley?' Rolanda continued. 'Terrible form he's exhibited in his last few Quidditch matches.'

I grit my teeth tightly, then, wondering why on earth I had come all this way simply to talk about bloody _Weasley_. I excused myself when I was able and went to talk to Filius. Maybe it was rude of me to leave her, but I justified myself by thinking it's not as if she's never met these people before.

I thought it might helpe to have something else to concentrate on. Hogwarts would be celebrating the passing of umpteen million years since its founding this summer, and Minerva explained there were several events going on to mark it. I listened to the proposed itinerary, mentally noting which ones to ensure I'm busy for.

That'll be all of them, then.

But, soon, my mind would drift back to my earlier preoccupation. Why couldn't I just let it go? I felt Hermione's eyes on lingering on me more and more as the night went on and, if I'd looked up, I just knew her expression wouldn't be a pleasant one.

Can see that I bring it all on myself. I could have got up and returned to her, showed her I'm not a miserable sod, but I didn't do any of these things.

When it got late and some of the others stood to return to the castle, I thought she was going to leave without me. Instead, she came and stood by me and asked, somewhat tightly, if I was ready to go.

The drink couldn't have worked. If it had, I might have behaved even more stupidly by claiming a want to stay. As it was, I looked at her, deciphered elements of uncertainty and hurt in her expression, and could only think how young she looked.

I followed her outside; clearly the drink hadn't worked, because I felt unnervingly sober—in every sense of the word. She walked ahead with folded arms until we were away from the pub. Then she stopped and I steeled myself for what was to come.

'What's the matter?' she asked stiffly.

'I'm sorry?' Ugh; think it came out too obnoxiously.

'Oh, you _are_ able to speak to me, then.' She had no trouble meeting the obnoxiousness stakes. It was in her countenance too, as she looked at me most defiantly.

'_Yes_,' I murmured irritably, my head starting to throb steadily.

'Is this about Ron?'

I didn't like the look on her face. It was a mixture of condescension and impatience and it only ignited within me an obstinacy that the situation didn't need. She must have sensed it, because she carried on talking, only more irritably.

'_Is_ it about Ron? Why don't you just say if you have a problem? Why don't you just _discuss_ _it_ like any—'

I couldn't let her continue. I couldn't stand how patronising she sounded. 'I don't give a shit about Weasley,' I interrupted.

'Oh,' she remarked flatly. _'Oh_, there we are, then. Just a bit mortified having me around, were you? Whatever it is, I'm sure I can't work it out, and right now, I can't be bothered to. I'm going home.'

Even her crack of Disapparation sounded angry.

Don't blame her for being upset. I know I behaved like an arse.

I've been wondering what she would have gone on to say, had I not cut her off. I've decided on:

'_Why don't you just discuss it like any_ 'normal person'?'

Think she has it—in a nutshell.

* * *

><p>AN: Many thanks to Cave Felem for editing this : )<p>

Thanks for reading!


	6. June

**The Diary of a Somebody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Friday 1****st**** June**

**14:34 — Work. **

Five days have passed since that night in Hogsmeade and I haven't seen Hermione since. I wrote to her, testing the water by apologising for being a first-class prick. Took nearly two days for me to receive her terse reply that she would be 'busy' working until the weekend. I thought about going to her house, but knowing her, it's likely she really has been busy. Haven't wanted to irritate her further, so I've kept a low profile.

The weekend approaches, though, and I can't continue using this excuse.

Have a feeling she may turn up in Yorkshire tonight. Or rather… I hope she will.

Think I may even close up half an hour earlier tonight, in order to make some preparations at home (throw away my empties and make the place presentable).

Just in case.

**18:00 — Yorkshire.**

House is prepared. _I'm _prepared. Well, partially; am not, however, prepared for her to turn up, finish with me, and then Disapparate.

**18:10**

Oh, wait; I remember I restocked my drinks' cabinet the other day — I _am_ prepared.

**19:00**

Maybe I was wrong.

No sign of her. Getting restless now. Going to have to go outside before I start blasting this bloody tomb of a house into smithereens. Mind, could only be an improvement.

**Saturday 2****nd**** June**

**11:00 — Apothecary.**

Well, she did turn up.

I was sitting on the garden wall, unusually fidgety and apprehensive as I wondered what I should say to her. Unbidden, I thought of my parents and the arguments they used to have. My father never ever made any concession as to his behaviour. He used to brood in sullen silence until he felt enough time had elapsed, and then it would be:

'Wha' are we avin' for tea?'

Those thoughts left me in dire need of a drink. Would have been yet another disaster for her to appear and find me a drunken wreck, though, so I made some tea instead, and simply added a dash of the hard stuff to it. When I'd finished it, I was no less rankled and ended up lobbing the mug over the edge of the cliff with a frustrated grunt.

Was just thinking about throwing myself after it when I heard the sound of approaching footsteps and froze with anticipation. Next thing, she was there, sitting down next to me and folding her arms.

'What are you doing out here?' she asked, and I couldn't detect anything in her tone as to her mood.

'Sunbathing,' I replied mildly.

Then there was silence. Obviously she wasn't in the mood for my particular brand of humour. Unfortunately, my mind was oddly blank with regard to anything constructive. 'I, ah… I'm…' And my hands were awfully clammy. 'I regret my behaviour the other night. I—'

She cut me off, patting my arm. 'It's all right.'

I glanced at her sharply. 'Is it?'

'Yes,' she murmured, her expression unusually inscrutable. 'As long as it doesn't happen again.'

_Merlin_.

I may have scowled in confusion, but she smiled slightly to see it.

'These things happen...'

! ! !

Do they?

'I should have been plain about being friends with Ron again.'

I was surprised, I must say, and I was thrown by her graciousness over it all. I'd imagined I'd be in for a tough time explaining myself, yet it seemed she wasn't interested in raking it over. Grateful, I took her hand and kissed it, but as I looked at her there was something in her expression that left me doubtful, and I felt further explanation was needed on my part.

'No, it's my fault and I shouldn't let myself get so, ah… So—'

Whatever I was trying uselessly to say, she forestalled it by kissing me. Understandably, that fairly ended any time for discussion as there were, ah... other things to attend to.

Am relieved. And yet, now that I really think about it, I find myself confused. Even I recognise she had much reason to give me a hard time over my behaviour. Is it really "all right," as she puts it? Why was she happy to brush the incident away? I thought… Well, I thought she might be the type who would want to dissect everything…

Perhaps I should have pressed the matter, because I think we may have missed an opportunity to discuss what's… To decide what we are—

God. _I'm_ an old woman.

**Tuesday 5****th**** June**

**12:13 — Work. **

Merlin. People do my head in sometimes.

Some idiot has just come in brandishing a mouldy old Shrivelfig. They threw it down on the counter, looked at me with outrage, and said: 'I only bought this three days ago.'

'And?' I asked flatly.

'_And_, I expect it to last longer than three days!'

'Do you have proof of purchase?'

The bloke spluttered impressively. 'Er, well, no, I didn't think I'd need my receipt, did I; _I_ didn't know it was going to go off so quickly.'

A likely story. They probably found it forgotten in a cupboard somewhere and thought it an opportunity to claim back a few Sickles.

'I'd like my money back,' my antagonist continued imperiously.

I looked up briefly from my accounts and simply shrugged. 'You could have bought that anywhere.'

'I bought it here. _You_ served me.'

'Did I?'

God. Why do some people always feel the world owes them something? What boring, cosseted lives they must lead for gone-off Shrivelfigs to be such a personal injustice. I only have two words for these people:

'Fuck' and 'off'.

**Thursday 7****th**** June**

**13:02 — Work. Lunch.**

Been thinking.

This month will mark six months of my relationship with Hermione. _Six_ months. I thought it'd only last six days, at a stretch. Who'd have thought I'd have a personal anniversary to mark that wasn't someone's death?

This is a problem in itself, of course, as I assume I have to plan some sort of celebration. Must take the initiative on this; I'm determined. The past six months have been perfectly acceptable, so shall start as I mean to go on. Yes. I'm going to be assertive; I'm going to be confident; and I'm going to show her, maybe even tell her, how I feel. If a six month anniversary is not the time for such sentiment, then there never will be. So, I shall forcefully squeeze it out of me. Even if it kills me, which it very well might.

I'll need to buy a gift… Have no bloody idea what. And…

Merlin. I hope _she_ hasn't forgotten it's this month. I'll die if it unfolds that _I_ remembered and _she_ didn't. Perhaps I should mention it… ? Or are you supposed to keep these things a surprise for the day?

I just don't know. Merlin. Never really realised how much there is I don't know.

_She'll_ know, though. I'm not sure how many years she was with Weasley, but they must have celebrated a few anniversaries. I wonder what efforts he made? Do mine ever fall short and she's just too polite to say? She probably knows if she did, I'd probably never be able to get over the ignominy.

Shall have to think hard; possibly have left it a bit late… Haven't got that long, really… Only… _two_ weeks…

Fuck!

However, I feel there is another test for me to undergo first. The annual commemoration of Voldemort's defeat has rolled around again. Am in an entirely different situation now than I was last year, when I could barely stomach the event. Going to have to make effort this time though. Have chance to make up for previous misbehaviour and I'd be a bloody fool not to take it.

So, shall not complain about having to attend. Shall not complain about having to wear my red-ribboned Order of Merlin. Shall not complain about the amount of arsewipes I shall have to talk to. Also, shall not complain about having to face her peers.

In short, I shall not complain full stop.

**Sunday 10****th**** June**

**10:30 — Feeling delicate.**

I'm an apothecary, and a spirit connoisseur, and I've actually forgotten to maintain my stock of Hangover Cure. How useless am I? Have hurriedly thrown some together and have it on the boil now. Don't want to lose face in front of Granger when she sees I can't even cure my own ills. Or hers, for that matter.

Was a good night. Think I'm back in the good books. Although… I've been wondering whether there is something still niggling Miss Granger. Have noticed she's seemed a bit distant — unlike herself — these past few days. Perhaps, secretly, she has still been a bit pissed off with me. Especially up until last night, because maybe she was expecting me to make another tit of myself. In fact, I'm sure she was. She seemed rather hesitant for the first hour or so.

But I behaved. I was ease personified as we arrived at the Ministry. I ingored the ridiculous medal weighing me down like some medieval manacle. I didn't even allow a sneer to touch my lips when I clapped eyes on a pensive looking Weasley at the bar. Neither did I groan (aloud) when Potter hurried over. And I was perfectly magnanimous when, later in the evening, I actually suggested she should join her friends for a bit. Bloody slap on the back for me that was, when she beamed pleasantly in reply.

Minerva approached me at some point. Goes to show how long she's known me, though, because she saw right through my calm exterior.

'Glad to see your new personal circumstances haven't disposed you to these tedious events,' she commented with an archly raised eyebrow. 'When I saw you talking to Potter earlier, I feared for you.'

'I've had to… adjust,' I replied, not resenting the sentiment as much as I'd anticipated.

I followed her eyes across the room until they landed upon my companion, who stood talking amongst a conglomerate of Weasleys and Potters. I braced myself for some pointed observation from the Headmistress, but she only smiled and patted my arm.

When Hermione later rejoined me, I noticed she remained a little hesitant, as if she thought I was going to shove her away if she got too close. Ugh, I'm such an arse. One day... I'll tell her she has the ability to make me feel as big as a house. It's only _my_ absurdity that is the problem—my pathological insecurity. And then she won't have to feel she has to walk on eggshells around me.

I will tell her.

One day I will.

**Tuesday 12th June**

**09:30 — Diagon Alley. Filled with delight.**

Just picked up the _Daily Prophet _and Weasley is featured in one of the front page articles. He's been dropped from the Cannons' starting line-up, owing to his current run of terrible performances in matches. Hah!

There is a God.

Weasley relegated to the substitute bench, and me about to celebrate six months with his ex-wife… I almost feel sorry for the bloke.

But not quite.

**11:00**

Still struggling to make plans for said celebration, however. Hmm… I've an alarming lack of creativity when it comes to this sort of thing. Not sure my mother and father ever acknowledged their anniversaries. Still, why would they?

If I'd been my mother, I'd have tried my hardest to forget that unfortunate moment of their union as well.

**19:00 — Home. **

Just what a man likes to return home to after eight hours on his feet shovelling eyeballs and plucking feathers: his… companion… entirely missing his entrance in order to stare at the newspaper with a troubled expression

Have terrible feeling Hermione is worried about what has happened to Weasley.

'What a sorry state of affairs it is when Weasley's woebegone plight makes the front page,' I said, feeling there was no point ignoring the matter, nor to hide my distaste.

'Mmm,' she murmured, in what I could only describe as half-hearted agreement.

Stirring, she threw aside the paper and offered to make me tea.

'Might do him good to learn a bit of humility,' I continued, watching her calculatingly as she stirred the cups.

Her spoon clattered tellingly as she turned and brought my tea to me. 'Quidditch is his career; he'll be devastated if they get rid of him altogether.'

The edge of disapproval aimed at me, I did not imagine, I'm sure. 'Not your problem anymore.'

'Yes,' she murmured distantly, charming dishes into the sink.

I couldn't prevent myself from scowling at her; luckily, she had her back to me when I did so. I don't understand how she can be so friendly towards him after what he did. Either she's very forgiving, or Weasley is just someone she'll always be attached to in some way. But suppose I shall have to work to accept it, even though I don't understand it. Perhaps I should even admire her for it. Am sure it takes a stronger person to forgive, rather than to… hate. Unfortunately, my experience seems to lie mainly with the latter.

'He'll be fine,' I muttered as equably as I could. Although, I couldn't help adding: 'Besides, not as if he can't play Quidditch forever.'

**Thursday 14****th**** June**

**18:05 — Leaky. Quick pint before I go home.**

Really worried now. Haven't decided anything regarding anniversary and I'm struggling to find a gift. _Again_. Can't I just give her the money to buy something for herself? I'll throw her a few Galleons and say, 'Here. Buy yourself something nice.'

I wonder if she'd slap me first, or simply dump me in reply?

Hmm.

She doesn't wear much jewellery; that might have to be my last resort. I'd hoped to be a little more creative, however; a little more surprising than presenting her with a necklace or a ring or…

A _ring_? Need to cross that one off the list; don't want her to think I'm proposing marriage. Well aware how she feels about _that_, after all.

**Friday 15****th**** June**

Hmm.

Potter came in the shop today, ostensibly to buy some Bruise Paste, but I wonder if that might have been a ruse. Because he seemed eager to know one thing, having the cheek to say: 'What have you planned for your anniversary? Hermione was talking about it last night.'

The only reason I didn't bite his head off was because I was secretly grateful he'd managed put my fears to rest. She's remembered, thank Merlin, and I won't have to feel like an arse.

'Hoping to join us, are you?' I, nevertheless, inquired snidely.

His pallor turned as green as his, well, his eyes. 'Actually, I was going to suggest somewhere I took Ginny once. A nice Muggle restaurant; thought you'd appreciate the anonymity, but clearly you don't need _my_ help.'

He turned to leave, and it must be indicative of the sorry human being I have become since undertaking regular fraternisation with a woman that I called on him to wait. Yes. I'm ashamed to think on it, really, and I hope it shan't ever happen again.

'Where was this place?' I asked, nearly having to pry my jaw open to get the words out.

The bastard smirked widely. 'Got a bit of parchment?'

My blood perilously close to curdling, I passed him some parchment and a quill. He scratched out an address and handed it to me, looking smug.

'If I find you're pissing me about, Potter…' I warned.

'I want Hermione to have a good time; I'd hardly try and sabotage it.'

I grunted. 'Still; I'll be checking.'

He shrugged casually and took his leave. As degrading as it was accepting help off Harry Potter, even I have to eat humble pie, occasionally. And let's face it, I need all the assistance I can get. If I fuck this night up, which I probably will, I at least want to do so in a way that doesn't involve my pride, for a change.

Wonder if this is feasible?

Probably not.

**20:00**

Been on a little reconnaissance, and Potter seems to be as good as his word. The place is quiet—pleasant enough. It's Muggle, but, well, there we are.

Only other option really was for me to cook.

Ha. Beans on toast with a custard cream for afters.

God; who _wouldn't _want me?

**Monday 18****th**** June**

**10:04 — Work.**

Think I need to take on some help in the Apothecary. Business so far seems to be going along quite well. I've taken on three new accounts in the past month or so and, if it carries on, I'm not going to be able to manage processing the orders on time while having to be present in the shop all the time. Last thing I want is to fall behind in the paperwork too. And I should maximise as much potential as possible, so that I don't wake up one day and find the goblins knocking on my door.

Still, I'm hesitant, of course. The likelihood of me finding someone I can work with harmoniously are pretty slim, I should think.

Yet, it would free up my time invaluably and, if I deemed them reliable enough, I could even give myself a few days off now and again. Working six days a week is taking its toll, I think; fell asleep at _eight_ o'clock last night. Running around Hogwarts after miscreant children never left me feeling this tired.

I made some remark about this to Granger, and guess what she put it down to?

My age.

Thinks she's so funny.

Humph.

Anyway, going to write out an advertisement and put it in the window before I change my mind.

Wonder if anyone will have the guts to reply?

**15:37**

Some people are so critical.

Hermione came into the Apothecary this afternoon, and when she did, she immediately snatched down my job advert from the window and slapped it on the counter.

'You can't put _that_ in your window!' she admonished with a half-laugh.

Was offended. 'Why can't I? It's my window.'

She picked up the parchment and read from it, in her know-it-all voice. '_Vacancy for an Apothecary's assistant, to work sixteen hours a week. Must have experience and must be flexible. Dunderheads need not apply!'_

I snatched my advert back. 'Maybe you've forgotten, but I did work in recruitment for five years, thank you very much.'

She snorted. 'I'd love to know just how many candidates passed _your_ exacting standards during that time.'

'Haven't you heard? There's a terrible shortage of Unspeakables now because of me.' I took my advert back to the window and put it back in its place. 'There's nothing wrong with having high standards; and, actually, I'm not entirely inflexible when it comes to lowering them now and again.' I gave her a pointed look.

'_Oi_!' she gasped indignantly.

I only smirked to myself. 'No… It's only your standards we should be worrying about, really.'

'What standards?' she replied dryly.

'Exactly.'

Really, _what_ standards, though? Weasley first, and now me. I dread to think who she might get involved with if we do go down the pan. Who can I think of who's even more reprehensible and dubious than I am?

Oh God.

She'll take up with a Malfoy.

**Friday 22****nd**** June — The (Dreaded?) Day.**

**9:00 — Apothecary.**

Oh Lord. How the fuck I'm supposed to concentrate today, I don't know.

**12:20**

Was right to be concerned. Just went to replenish the jar of ground dung beetles, but ended up pouring the contents into a container of powdered snake fangs! Only just noticed. What an imbecile. The only bloody place I'll be going tonight if I'm not careful is flaming Azkaban.

**17:20**

Home early to ready myself for this evening. Have cocktail of potions laid out before me and I'm contemplating taking them. Unfortunately, part of me wishes they were deadly poisons.

One is a Calming Draught. I thought this might help me relax and dispose me to being a tad more at ease when it comes to… being a bit more… open, I suppose, with regard to my… ah, feelings. The same effect as booze, really, only without the impaired motor function.

There's also an Eloquence Brew. But I'm afraid I could end up waxing poetic and that would be too shameful to even contemplate. Will forget that one.

Maybe I should take a drop of Veritaserum? Ha! Oh my dear Lord; I can just imagine the resulting carnage.

I also have a phial of Felix Felicis, which could prove handy; very handy, indeed. However, I'm unsure about taking any of these substances. Wouldn't it be good for me to able to say I managed all this under my own steam? For crying out loud, how pathetic would she think I am if she found out I had to drug myself with mood-altering substances to face her?

No, I don't need them.

I'll manage.

I hope.

**Saturday 23****rd**** June**

…

...

**Sunday 24****th**** June**

…

...

**Monday 25****th**** June**

**03:15 — Home. Contemplating death.**

Well… Don't know where to begin, really.

I think it's finally finished; _we're_ finished. Done. Over. Ended. Kaput.

Not sure I understand how this all came to be. Well, maybe I can reason out a chain of events over time, but I'm still dumbfounded. Considering how enthusiastic and bright she'd looked when I arrived at her house, I could never have imagined what might happen later.

It started well. I even managed to tell her how wonderful she looked without inadvertently insulting her, as I've been known to do on previous occasions.

I won't bother going into the detail of the place we went to, or what she said, or what I said, or what I felt, because what's the point now? We hadn't even got to the main course before it happened. I still can't believe… God, I could bloody well…

_I could bloody well smash his face in. _

Can't remember the last time I felt such debilitating anger.

Weasley. Weasley, the _Wanker_. One minute we were sitting there, as any other patrons in the restaurant, and the next, Ronald fucking _Weasley_ burst into the room, chest heaving, flushed, but as gormless as ever, and called out, 'Hermione!'

I nearly choked on my bread. Although, if only I _had_ choked to death; I could have solved all my problems right there.

The lady in question spun around in her chair, immediately blushing at the sight of her ex-husband. 'Oh Merlin,' she gasped, embarrassed, as he started towards us.

She seemed afraid to look at me, but I fixed my eyes on her. I didn't know what else to do. My blood seemed to have stilled in my veins and I was immobilised while Weasley advanced further to our table.

'Hermione, I'm sorry, I need to talk to you,' he pleaded fervently.

Understandably, the whole room was now filled with an uncomfortable silence. Even as Hermione whispered, 'What the hell are you doing? Severus and I are _busy_, Ron,' it seemed impossibly loud.

'I'm not leaving until I've told you how I feel—'

_That_ brought me back to life. Rueing Potter for suggesting a Muggle establishment, I leapt to my feet, only just managing to keep from pulling out my wand. 'Leave,' I hissed to idiot before me.

He shook his head, looking at me with only a smidgeon of apprehension. That smidgeon evolved as I stepped towards him.

'I'm not going anywhere, Snape—'

I kept on walking, shoving him onwards. '_Move_.'

'Hermione, I'm sorry—'

I grabbed his arms and pushed him forwards. A couple of waiters started towards us as I continued to force Weasley away to the door. He only resisted my actions with any purpose when we were outside and there were no Muggles to interfere. 'Get off me, Snape,' he hissed. 'This is nothing to do with you.'

I snorted and put my hand on my wand. 'If you don't leave—'

'Ron, what are you doing?'

Why did she have to follow us? Why couldn't she have just stayed inside and let me deal with it? Why does she always insist on giving him the light of day? She even had the gall to tug me away from him so she could face him.

'Give me another chance, Hermione,' urged Weasley, beginning a passionate spiel that nearly made me vomit. I won't record it verbatim here, for I refuse to think on it. Suffice it to say, he appealed to the bonds of their shared past, my apparent unsuitability for her, and his supposed depth of feeling.

I stood by, incredulous, as she listened—actually _listened_ to him. What was I supposed to take from this; that she was _considering_ his words? Surely, she should have cut him off at the knees? Bade him to stop?

But his trump card was yet to come. When he could see he was failing to incite a similar frenzy of feeling in her, he said: 'I heard you telling Ginny you were having… doubts about… him.'

His eyes met mine over her head and, surprisingly, they were not filled with malice.

'I need to know if there's any chance for us to try again.'

All I could register was a feeling as though I'd been kicked in the guts. I don't know what Hermione was thinking; I couldn't bring myself to look.

'Did you really think this would work, Ron?' she finally said, in a choked voice. 'It's too late. If I'm so important to you, you wouldn't have hurt me in the first place. Or even have done so now.'

Weasley's expression fell to the floor. 'Was a mistake,' he murmured in a broken voice. 'I thought, lately, we've been friends again, and—'

She shouted at him then; implored him to leave, yet, even as she did so, I felt no less relieved. Why would I? And when she turned to me, crying, I hardened myself against her entreating expression.

'Do you want to go to him?' I put to her darkly.

'No,' she whispered.

'Don't feel you have to hang around on my account.'

'Don't start,' she warned, rubbing tears away with her hand.

It was all right for her to say; _she_ wasn't standing where I was. She hadn't seen the edge of wistfulness in her eyes. She hadn't seen the flash of indecision that had crossed her face. She couldn't hear the sadness in her tone. _She_ couldn't see the doubt that _I_ could. Weasley, clearly, hadn't been lying.

'Really,' I murmured. 'Go, if you want.'

She chewed her lip for a moment, assessing me. 'Would you be bothered if I did?'

'What sort of question is that?'

'Well… sometimes I wonder. Sometimes, I actually have no idea what you're thinking.'

How did this become to be about me? How was it I had to be on the defensive?

'Is _this_ your basis for your so-called _doubt_?' I asked contemptuously. 'Why don't you simply try asking me what I'm thinking?'

She scowled. 'Oh, you'd tell me if I asked would you? You wouldn't fob me off with some thinly-veiled sarcasm?'

'Because you're an open book, aren't you?'

Her eyes narrowed. 'Trying to get a straight answer from you is like getting blood from a stone sometimes.'

'That's your problem is it? It's not Weasley, then? Or is it because, really, you're not very bothered about what happens between us? I suppose this is why find it easy to brush off my foibles; why you never mentioned me to your parents…' Thought this seemed a time like no other to get this out into the air.

Her face flushed. 'No, it's because you wouldn't be interested in them.'

I scoffed. 'For God's sake, I wouldn't bloody well _be_ here if I wasn't bloody well interested!'

That seemed to resonate within her, for she stilled, and any retort she had poised vanished. Her face suddenly crumpled and she was nodding. But it wasn't until she put her head in her hands that I felt the first real burst of foreboding.

'You're right,' she murmured, sounding defeated. 'It's not you…'

My insides contracted at the unsaid words that floated in the air. The words that even I know are somewhat of a cliché in these situations: '_It's me_.'

She sniffed with upset and pressed her fingers to her eyes. I was not unaffected by the sight of her distress, but what was I to do? I knew instinctively I was not to profit from it. 'I'm so sorry, Severus,' she let out in a rush. 'I've made a mess of this. I don't want Ron, but I…'

'But you don't want me, either.' How I managed to say this without dissolving into humiliation and despair, I don't know.

'No, I do care about you, a very great deal.' A small smile formed along with her words, but it didn't linger. 'But I just can't… I don't know what I want. I haven't told my parents, because of what it would mean.'

I had no idea what she was on about.

'I never thought I'd be in this situation again, so quickly after Ron, and perhaps it was too soon for me to get involved with someone…' Her eyes were downcast, and I had to strain my ears to hear her whisper of a voice. 'I have had doubts; but they are about _me_. I should have told you, but I'd hoped to overcome them. It's foolish, I know… I can't stop thinking about Ron and what he did—'

'But it was you; _you_ who brought all this together,' I pointed out incredulously.

Her eyes closed. 'I know…'

'What—you want to be the one to be able to undo it all? Before I do? You don't trust me, then.'

'No, I don't trust myself.' She approached me and touched my arm, but I nearly recoiled. 'I'm sorry,' she said again. 'I don't know what I feel.'

'How long have you been waiting to finish it?' I asked bitterly. Six months; how much longer was she going to drag it out? How could she have sat there and smiled at me, all the while knowing her heart wasn't really in it?

She was shaking her head vehemently. 'I thought I could get forget… I thought they'd just go away, in time—'

I took back my arm and she frowned. 'I'm sorry; I don't know what I thought.' An expression of deep disatisfaction came over her as she continued. 'It wasn't supposed to come out in this way... and now I've hurt you...'

She turned away then, with a partially staunched sob. 'I think I need some time to… sort myself out,' she choked out. When she Disapparated, I half expected to find she'd Splinched herself. However, I was left very much alone, unable to believe what had occurred. And what could I do? I could hardly stand there all night, so I went home. I returned to my hovel in Yorkshire, but couldn't bring myself to go inside. I went to the bottom of the garden to look at the waves below and enjoy the crisp wind that blew around the cliffs.

I wondered now if it all could have been handled better. But I don't know what I should have said or done differently. Expect this is divine retribution, I bet, for my behaviour towards Weasley. Should have known I couldn't get away with hexing him in the way that I did. Twice.

The irony of all this is that it hasn't been my insecurities—not my misgivings over the age difference; not my jealousy; not even my complete lack of experience with being attached to another—it's been hers. Insecurities I didn't even know she had. Perhaps I was too self-absorbed that I never considered she had fears of her own; that I underestimated the significance of her time with Weasley seems certain.

Minerva was right. _I_ was right, even. I recall, all those months ago, teasing her about her misandry; well, I was nearly there. Weasley, the bastard, has a lot to answer for.

I've thought about it these last two days, and as difficult as it is, I think I do understand. I met her at the wrong time. She was looking to regain control; regain her confidence and self-esteem, and I was looking for someone to teach me those things… She must've known she had the advantage over me from the very beginning… Maybe that even formed the basis of her attraction.

Even Rolanda was right. She was on the rebound, as they say. Now time has gone on, and as the sting of Weasley's duplicity has faded, I suppose she's realised she doesn't need me to ease that pain. And me, in my fecklessness in these regards, couldn't even see it coming.

Whatever. I'm too tired to think about it any longer.

Standing in the garden that night, I reached into my pocket and took out the phial of Felix Felicis, pondering it anything would have occurred differently had I taken it. Maybe it would…

Numbly, I let the phial fall from my hand and over the edge of the cliff.

Because knowing my luck, I'm probably immune.

And that's it. I'm in a far different situation to the one I imagined, a couple of days ago. But, in some way it's an odd relief. Indeed, at least I know where I am now. I've been _here_ before. I know what this will feel like. I'll know what to expect from now on. Let's face it, as enjoyable as the last six months have been, there's no denying I was a veritable fish out of water. Now... I'm back where I've always been. Dignity intact.

Because at least I didn't get as far as telling her that I—

No I _will_ write it down. Far too often in my life I haven't faced the facts as they are, and I've had to pay the price for it.

I didn't tell her that I love her.

There.

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks for reading. Thanks, also, to Cave Felem for beta-reading : )<p> 


	7. July

**The Diary of a Somebody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Sunday 1****st**** July**

**14:30 ****—**** Home. **

No word from Hermione. How many days is it now…? Nearly a week, but there has been nothing. Lovely.

Perhaps I'd hoped she would come to me and say she'd made a mistake—that she'd changed her mind. Suppose I really am that pathetic.

On second thought, maybe I'm actually not so very pathetic. Otherwise, I expect I should have been banging on her door by now. Or lurking outside her chambers in the Wizengamot, perhaps. Ha. I've never shied away from playing towards creepy, after all.

No, I'll not go to her. Stuff her. I've got better things to do.

**17:35**

God.

Minerva turned up on my doorstep this afternoon. Felt ridiculous, because when I heard the knock on my door, I thought… Well, doesn't matter now.

Can't say I was overjoyed for Minerva to turn up unannounced (can't say I'm ever overjoyed when she turns up _announced_, either). But I should have anticipated her arrival at some point. Ostensibly, she came to see how I'm faring, yet, I do wonder whether there was an element of 'I told you so' on her behalf. Can't deny that in some way she has been vindicated.

I told her I'm fine; she, however, frowned sceptically.

'Did you expect to find me passed out on the floor, overcome with despair?' I put to her. 'Balancing on the cliff edge, preparing to jump? Never mind a whole week has gone by. Nice to know how long I'd have to wait for someone to come and save me from myself.'

I hid a smirk at her half-sheepish, half-exasperated expression.

'If you were going to commit suicide, Severus, you'd have done it years ago.'

Have to give her that one.

'We can't pretend neither of us didn't anticipate this might happen.' I shrugged my shoulders in a measure of indifference that wasn't a fair reflection of my true thoughts.

'Well, I confess, it went on longer than I thought it would.'

'Then I shall go to my grave a content man; forever satisfied in knowing I proved _you_ wrong.'

She frowned disapprovingly but made no comeback. When she spoke again, it was to say: 'Maybe if you give her some time, she might—'

'Stop right there,' I interrupted. 'I'm not hanging around interminably; putting my life on hold whilst I try to anticipate her bloody incomprehensible whims.'

Thankfully, Minerva had the grace not to point out that I actually have no life to put on hold. Instead, she looked at a little taken aback at my vehemence. She wasn't the only one. I very nearly believed the words myself.

I really didn't want to dwell on the subject any further, so I questioned her about how things were at Hogwarts. She went on and on about how fabulous this years exam results were and I sat there, trying to care, but failing miserably.

**21:00 **

Bored. Going to have a drink.

**Monday 2****nd**** July**

**07:50 ****—**** Late for work.**

Oh God.

Note to self: need to curb my drinking. Need to nip it in the bud right now.

First weekend back on the shelf turned into boozy free-for-all. Have had to swill down some Sober-Up because my words from yesterday took on a new meaning when coloured by several brandies. Began to think it really would be best for me to demand an audience with her. Actually decided I would go and seek her out. It was only because in my drunken haze I'd misplaced my wand, and didn't think to Summon it, that I didn't Apparate straight to her house.

Now, that was luck.

Seems there may be someone up there looking out for me, after all. I can only wonder what they were doing for the first forty-five years of my life.

I dread to think.

**Wednesday 4****th**** July**

**12:29 ****—**** Work.**

Saw Potter this morning. Was walking down the Alley to the Apothecary, to open up, when I saw the back of his scruffy head in front of me. He was peering greedily into the window of one of the Quidditch shops. Arse.

I've been waiting for just such an opportunity to see him. Quickening my pace, I bore down on him, yanking the hood of his robes so that he might face me. Some bloody Auror he is; didn't even notice me coming.

'Did you bloody well tell Weasley where Hermione and me were going to be that night?'

He yelped in surprise and frowned when he saw me, flinching himself from my grip.

'Hang on—'

'Didn't quite work out for you though, did it? Weasley didn't get what he wanted.'

Have been wondering, haven't I, whether Potter has developed a cunning streak. Whether he'd orchestrated all the pieces together and told Weasley where Hermione and me were going to be that night. For all I know, Hermione had told everyone her doubts, bar me.

'_No_,' he pressed firmly. 'I didn't tell Ron. Look, I was as surprised as you. In fact, I don't know what she's playing at. She won't talk to me about it.'

He managed to meet my eye, so I had no choice but to believe him.

'I'm sorry for what happened. Ron's been a first class arse, if you ask me. And Hermione, well, who knows what's going on inside her head?'

I half wish there had been some conspiracy on his behalf. At least then, I could have had someone to hex. Or shout at. And Potter's always been good for that, if nothing else.

'Have you seen her much, then?' I found myself asking reluctantly.

Potter shrugged his shoulders. 'Not particularly. Think she's been staying in her chambers in the Wizengamot till all hours.'

'There we are, then.' I said dismissively.

'You're, ah, remarkably calm about all this,' he ventured. 'I, ah, actually expected a visit off you much sooner than this. Still, if you want to talk—'

I simply told him to fuck off. When the hell did he ever become my therapist? Merlin. There are some depths to which even I shall never fall.

I do wonder though if Potter might relate back to Hermione that I'm 'calm'. What does it matter? I'm quite sure I don't want her to know the real frame of mind I'm in, because I'm afraid she wouldn't even care.

**20:45 ****—**** Home.**

Just found a pile of her books; an intrepid selection of Statutes and Decrees. Shall have to Owl them to her. Not going to be sad enough to hope she might turn up to collect them herself. No; shall get rid of them post-haste.

**21:12**

Or… I'm told they're rather expensive books.

Perhaps I should flog them in Diagon Alley and make myself a few Galleons?

Ha.

**Friday 6****th**** July**

Some young girl came in today to apply for the job I've advertised. Unfortunately, I haven't been in the right presence of mind lately (wonder why?) and so when she offered me her C. V. I was rather short with her.

'Hufflepuff?' I questioned, skimming the parchment. 'Sorry; you're unsuitable.'

And that was that. I glared at her and she fled.

Half debating whether to remove the advert, because I can't be arsed now. Can't be arsed with the hassle. Can't be arsed with anything.

**14:00**

I'll leave it there. Can't let everything else go down the pan simply because one area of my life is buggered.

**Monday 9****th**** July**

**14:34**

Did something stupid today.

Went to Gringotts' earlier to deposit some money into my vault, and something in there caught my eye. It was my diary from last year. That stupid, pathetic volume. Probably even more pathetic than this one is. Why do I bother with them? But as much as I wanted to ignore it, I could stop myself from pocketing it.

Now, some hours after finally dismantling all the wards, I've read it. Read it from cover-to-cover. And, naturally, I only feel increasingly more pitiable and stupid. Anyone would think I was some young, naïve idiot from reading it back; not a forty-five year old former Death Eater for crying out loud.

Why did I ever let myself be bothered by her? Why did I get involved? Why did I bother with any of it, for that matter? Why did I bother writing it all down? Did I have — _do_ I have — nothing better to do with my time?

Shan't do it any longer. Going to burn last year's diary, and I'm going to burn this pile of rot, too. Who the hell do I think I am? Samuel bloody Pepys? Nicholas Flamel?

There is _no_ point.

**19:45**

Clearly, am addicted.

Haven't made good on my vow. Can't do anything. Am useless.

**Wednesday 11****th**** July**

**17:00**

Have had a setback.

Came out of the stockroom today to find Hermione standing in the shop. Nearly dropped a whole vat of Armadillo bile on the floor.

Wasn't prepared. Hate not being prepared. Bet that's why she chose to turn up unannounced—to catch me on the back-foot. She was standing there in her Wizengamot robes and, on seeing them, I wished for the days when she'd been nothing more to me than an up-herself, self-important old cow.

'Good afternoon,' I said blankly, praying that someone else might come into the shop and vie for my attention.

'Hello,' she replied, her lips quirking into a half-hearted smile. 'How are you?'

'Fine.' I endeavoured to look directly at her. To her, I most definitely am fine. Bloody perfect. Bloody _marvellous, _I am.

'Did you require something?' I forced out, picking up my quill and pretending to be absorbed in something important.

'Severus, I really am sorry about what happened.'

I suppressed a flinch at the fact she was prepared to rake it all up in the middle of the bloody apothecary. When I returned my attention to her, her earnest, wide-eyed expression suddenly made me inexplicably angry.

'Sorry?' I heard myself whispering, in a tone that may have erred on the wrong side of disgust.

What I was going to say further, I'm not quite sure, but I think I should be grateful for the interruption that forestalled me. The door swung open and in walked a man, who said:

'Oh, excuse me, but is the vacancy still open?'

'It is,' I replied, approaching him, and entirely taking the opportunity to ignore my other visitor. 'Are you interested?'

We talked for a few minutes, but, of course, I was not unaware when Hermione took her leave.

Have tried to ignore all thought of the incident, but… have felt like crap all day.

**21:00**

Still feel like crap.

Probably why I agreed to hold an interview for the post I advertised; that bloke who came in was enquiring for his son. Shall be unmitigated disaster, I expect.

Like my life.

**Saturday 14****th**** July**

**07:15 ****—**** Home. Bed. Disturbed.**

Am worried.

I think… No, it _was_ a terribly disturbing night.

Have just woken up and I'm trying to work out if I imagined it all, but—

What the…?

**07:30**

Oh Lord. I can hear movement downstairs — it really _did_ happen. I think… I think I must be losing my grip on sanity, because I can't fathom how I would allow myself to… _Why_ would I allow myself to…

_God_.

Fragments of the night are still filtering back to the front of my mind and I just can't comprehend what I allowed myself to do. Think, no, I definitely _should_ book an appointment with a Healer, maybe.

Because I…

Oh dear, I can't even bring myself to physically transcribe it. Perhaps I should simply pretend it never happened? Who could I ask to administer an _Obliviate_?

Because I was at the Leaky last night, nothing unusual there, and from the pounding in my head, I got piss drunk, nothing unusual there, either. What is problematic, however, is that I got piss drunk with… _Weasley_ _the_ _Wanker_.

_And I brought him home with me because he was so pissed he couldn__'__t remember where he lives._

How shameful is that? Clearly, I've really hit rock bottom this time.

Need to sort this out now. Need to get rid of him. _Now_. Before anyone finds out.

**7:44**

Think I'll wait five minutes. Stood up and there were suddenly three new doorways to choose from.

**11:00 ****—**** Work.**

My God; it's bloody days like this when I need assistance in the shop. Think I must be developing a tolerance to Hangover Cure.

More importantly, I successfully dispatched Weasley this morning. I went downstairs to find him sitting on the settee with his hands over his face and breathing loud, steady breaths.

'Am I dead?' he croaked hopefully.

'Unfortunately not,' I replied stiffly.

Perhaps seeing me brought home the reality of the situation and he lurched to his feet awkwardly. 'Um, I…' He closed his eyes for a moment, looking green. Then he tried again. 'Um, I, ah… Thanks—'

'Just piss off, Weasley.'

He'd better not mention this incident to anyone, otherwise he's going to be on sale in the Apothecary before he can blink.

From now on, going to think twice before stopping off in the Leaky of an evening. Can't let this happen again. I trudged in last night, after closing up the shop. I'd already ordered my pint, before looking down the length of the bar and seeing him sitting there — staring morosely into his glass. I had to quickly decide whether to leave, ignore him, or throw a volley of curses down the bar, followed by any objects I had to hand. Unfortunately, it was while I was imagining lobbing stools and tankards at his head that he looked up and clocked me.

I opted to ignore him. I'd drain my glass, I decided, and then I'd leave. No harm, no foul. Except… I'd nearly made it to the bottom of my pint, when I sensed a movement at my side.

'What the fuck do _you_ want, Weasley?' I hissed.

He'd sidled nearer, looking shifty and slightly worse for wear. Actually, _very_ worse for wear. 'Do you want another one?' He nodded towards my drink.

I slammed my glass onto the bar and turned to leave, deciding he'd be head-first in the slops if he wasn't careful.

'Wait, Snape,' he called with a slur. 'I know I've been a prick; everyone keeps telling me so. But, it was nothing personal, all right? '

I turned around slowly. He'd teetered back to the bar and was slumped on a stool. Feeling a burst of ire, I stalked up to him and placed my fist suggestively on the bar. 'Nothing personal?' I whispered.

He flinched and leaned away from me. 'Yes. It was stupid, I know, but I was desperate. All's fair in… in, whatever it is… I had to take a chance.'

I scoffed to myself, only feeling contempt for his self-righteousness. 'You should have thought about this before you played away, shouldn't you? Who do you think you are to—'

'All right, Snape,' he interrupted irritably, 'I've heard this all before. I've promised not to trouble Hermione again. Not my fault she didn't want to stick around with either of us.'

I started to sneer at him with disgust, but even as I did so, I couldn't ignore his point. This wasn't _all_ Weasley's fault. Whether he'd turned up to the restaurant that night or not, Hermione still would have had her 'doubts'. Maybe I should even be grateful for his interference. Who knows how long I'd be labouring under the misapprehension that my relationship with Granger was fine, otherwise?

I studied him; his head lolled forward and was supported by his arm on the bar. Admittedly, he looked a sorry sight, and though I felt no sympathy, I was able to curtail any desire to cause him physical harm. Feeling myself deflate, I requested a Firewhisky off the barman and (here my behaviour must be called into question) sat down.

'I'll get that,' Weasley put in, standing and stuffing a hand into his robes. He rummaged through a mountain of coins before shaking his head and dumping them all on the bar.

I watched him speculatively; perhaps, strangely for me, trying to fathom him out. He turned back to his forlorn contemplation of his glass.

There was, has been, something I've wondered about for some time. Something I've never got to the bottom of because I came to believe Hermione wouldn't welcome talk of it — she never offered up any chance to discuss it, after all. Now I know I probably should have at least broached the subject.

'Why did you do it?' I heard myself ask.

Weasley stirred and glanced at me blearily. 'What?' he grimaced. 'I told you, I still love her—'

'Why did you have an affair?' I stated firmly, not wanting to hear any more of his lovesick spiel. 'Why would you do it?'

He groaned a little, straightening up and tugging at his hair for a moment. 'Look Snape, I'd rather not talk about it. I'm sorry if we can't all live up to _your_ measure of loyalty.'

I'm glad he wasn't looking at me, because I nearly flushed. A bubble of rage prickled within me and I was getting ready to blast him to pieces when he sighed extensively. 'Would you believe me if I said I don't know?' he murmured.

'There must have been a reason.'

'Won't justify my actions, though, will it?' He smiled bitterly.

'No.'

I thought he'd fallen asleep for a time, but then his voice sounded quietly.

'Hermione and me are rather different people. It didn't matter so much when we were younger. But as we got older, we seemed to have less in common. To her credit, it never seemed to bother her as it did me. Going to sound selfish, I expect, or self-absorbed, but sometimes I couldn't help feeling a bit inadequate.'

I frowned and he rushed to say: 'It was never consciously done on her part…'

He looked indecisive, slugging down a gulp of beer and the appearing suddenly animated. 'I mean… There was… Well, take this for an example. We went for a walk once, over some cliffs down Kent way, I think, and she started explaining all about how these chalk cliffs had formed over thousands and thousands of years…'

Uncomfortably, I was reminded of my own trip there with her.

'And do you know what, Snape?' His arm shot up and he shook his head so vehemently, he nearly toppled sideways. 'I didn't have a bloody clue what she was talking about. Not a _bloody_ clue! I asked her how she knew all this. How could she know so much? And do you know what she said? She said she'd kept up with her Muggle education whenever she could over the years, just for her own amusement.'

His expression of complete incomprehension might have been amusing under other circumstances. '_That__'__s_ the difference between me and Hermione right there,' he burst out, jabbing his finger into the bar. 'She has an insa— insationable—'

'Insatiable.'

'Right. An insationable curiosity about the world that I will never have. And though she never appeared to resent my level of sophistication, I always felt she wished to have someone who shared her… thirst for knowledge, I suppose.'

He was surprisingly eloquent, for Weasley. I suspected his new-found loquacity was a product of his earlier lonely deliberations. All seven pints of them.

He slowly raised his head to look at me. 'I bet you know about cliffs. I bet your idea of fun isn't watching Quidditch.'

I smirked cynically. 'And yet, here I am,' I muttered, offering my glass up to be rejuvenated.

'Yeah,' he sighed. 'My fault; I've hurt her probably more than I shall ever know.'

Think he had that perfectly right.

'You might still have a chance, Snape., but I don't. I don't even have my career, anymore. Haven't been able to keep my mind in the game, they said.' I glanced at him as he screwed up his face in an exaggerated expression of disbelief. 'I gave that team _six_ years of my life.'

His fist landed on the bar with a thump. 'There's your reason right there. Was it selfish of me to wish she'd have shown an interest in my Quidditch matches?'

'I asked her to go to a Quidditch match once,' I remarked, and by now, I think the alcoholic-induced haze was beginning to descend.

'Wha' she say?'

'No.'

He scoffed and shook his head. 'No' right, is it, eh?' His head teetered ever closer to the bar and his eyes drooped. 'Wha' am I going to do?' he slurred glumly. 'How'd things get so bad?'

'Get a grip, will you? You're only in your twenties, for fuck's sake.'

Merlin. Wait till you're forty-fucking-six like me, I felt like saying.

Somehow we were still there when Tom was closing up for the night, and then we had no choice but to leave. I was still able to walk, but I'm not sure how Weasley made it out into the courtyard, because I only recall seeing him slumped across a barrel once there.

'See you, Weasley,' I said, desperately trying to find some brain cells that weren't so addled that I couldn't Apparate home.

There was a rather alarming noise from him then. I think he was trying to talk, but I can't be sure.

'Can you Apparate?'

'Aye,' he said, pushing himself up and clinging onto the wall. 'Got my wand.'

The fact, however, that he was holding his wand at the wrong end gave me pause.

'Weas—'

'S'fine,' he mumbled, trying to stand unaided but failing miserably.

'Where d'you live, Weasley?' I muttered with a sigh.

He was a while in answering. 'Dunno,' he replied morosely, his cheek pressed against the wall. 'Don' 'ave a proper home, anymore. Who cares? 'Cause I don't.'

I could have left the mournful old sod there. I could have, but…

I didn't want to be the one implicated when his cold, lifeless body would eventually be found, did I?

Been there, done that…

**20:00**

Been thinking about Weasley's words from last night (I must be disturbed). He seemed to suggest the breakdown of his marriage stemmed from a lack of common ground with his wife.

Now, if Weasley, who was friends with Hermione for years, shared many life-endangering experiences with her, is the same age as her, moves in the same social circle as her — I could go on — doesn't have much in common with her anymore, then what the fuck do _I_ have in common with her?

Me: a forty-six year old, bitter, dissatisfied, unfriendly apothecary who finds pleasure in very little apart from drinking and contemplating my own uselessness.

On paper, my odds should be far worse than Weasley's.

Wait… 'Should be?' That should read '_are_ worse' than Weasley's — because at least Weasley got a few years of marriage out of her, after all. I had six months. And now I even wonder about the reality of them. I don't know how many times she looked at me and second-guessed herself, do I?

Now there's a pleasant thought to get me through the day.

A chance? For me? No. I'm not even sure I want one anymore.

**Tuesday 17****th**** July**

Interviewed someone for the job today — the son of that wizard who came in the other day. Bloody pointless exercise. I asked him to mix me a headache powder in fifteen minutes. Not, I would say, an unreasonable task for an Apothecary's assistant. Anyway, I watched him closely, my frown, I'm sure, deepening with every passing minute. When he handed me the finished article, I stared between him and the mortar in my hand.

'If I consumed this,' I said bluntly, 'I'd be dead.'

His jaw slackened and he spluttered.

'Yes; first rule of working in an Apothecary is never to rely solely on the labels. You entirely failed to notice the presence of powdered water dropwort in the wrong jar.'

He seemed speechless.

'I think we can safely say you've been unsuccessful.'

After he'd scuttled out, I disposed of the lethal mixture. I half debated to take some, just to prove Minerva wrong.

That's the type of thing I'd do; kill myself just to prove a point.

Ha.

**Sunday 22****nd**** July**

Bored. Pissed off. Bored. Pissed off. Bored. Pissed off.

_Bored_.

Been a long time since a bottle of Ogden's was my only company.

**Wednesday 25****th**** July**

Fed up.

**Friday 27****th**** July**

Sigh.

**Saturday 28****th**** July**

It's been another weird night.

Bored, as ever, I went to the Leaky to while away a few hours. The sight of a large table set aside with a reserved sign atop it, maybe, should have rang alarm bells. When taken in conjunction with the date, then certainly I should have been wary. I'll just say I haven't been my usual sharp self lately.

Sat at the bar, I didn't bat an eyelid when the sound of several patrons trooping in filtered to my ears. Was too contented with my wallowing to take any notice of my surroundings.

That was, of course, until someone actually had the front to clap me on the back and say over my shoulder, 'Snape! You all right mate?' Horrified, I looked to find Weasley standing at my side. Looking beyond him, I could see a multitude of redheads sat around a table. Not _only_ redheads, mind.

'Harry's birthday on Tuesday,' Weasley explained, before reeling off an order of drinks to the barman.

Potter himself spotted me in due course and his eyes immediately flicked to his other best friend. The curly-haired one. I allowed myself a quick look, but she was talking to Potter's wife.

'Want to join us?' Weasley asked, levitating his tray of drinks into the air.

'I don't think so,' I muttered frostily, feeling an uncomfortable burst of jealousy.

'She's still not talking to me,' he carried on. There was no need to wonder who 'she' referred to. 'Never-mind, though. We'll show her, eh? Don't go running off—we've as much right to be here as she does. Us blokes have to stick together, remember?'

He elbowed me in some kind of, well, blokey gesture, I suppose, and meandered away.

I watched him go, frozen with terror, and wondered what the hell I'd unleashed. I think… I think I may have made friends with _Weasley_. Weasley the fuckwit _wanker_. What have I done with any self-respect I ever had?

I'd be getting out as soon as physically possible, I decided. I never wanted to touched by Ronald Weasley ever again in my bloody life.

When I came back to myself, I felt eyes on me. Yes, she'd found me. She didn't pretend to be looking at anything else, but her expression was unreadable. I raised my glass in a little sardonic salute and turned back to the bar.

Suddenly, I rather felt like staying for another one. There was a rather perverse pleasure to be had sitting there whilst she was only a few feet away. I hoped she was feeling uncomfortable about my presence, but I had to acknowledge there was a good chance she simply couldn't care less.

And as, deep down, I'd hoped, she approached me later on. She came to the bar and I nearly fell off my stool in response. I suddenly regretted my decision to stay.

'My round,' she said with a small smile.

'Oh,' I replied, stuffing my glass into my mouth so fiercely I nearly sent my front teeth down my throat.

'Do you want another one?' She nodded her head towards my empty drink.

'Thank you, no.'

'Oh,' she said.

_Now_ it was time to leave. No perverse pleasure to be had whilst she was within touching distance. Oh no.

But when I stood up, she stuck out her bloody hand and spoke, saying:

'Severus, please, I'd just like to say something about… ah, what happened…'

I stared. 'What is there to say?'

She fidgeted. 'Well, I didn't intend to, ah… Um…'

Thought barristers were supposed to be eloquent?

'I mean to say, that I—'

She stumbled this time because Weasley appeared between us. Her expression settled somewhere between confusion and trepidation. I liked it.

'Sorry to interrupt,' put in Weasley, 'but George and I need your advice about something, Snape. Would you mind, for a few minutes?' He motioned towards where his brother sat.

'Not at all. Excuse me, Hermione.'

I nodded to her, enjoying her startled expression, and followed Weasley, who then muttered, none too quietly:

'Thought you needed rescuing.'

Oh my. Oh _my_.

Oh, the terrible, _terrible_, irony.

But is it awful if I say…

…that I love it?

_Ha_.

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks for reading and reviewing, and thanks to Cave Felem for editing!<p> 


	8. August

**The Diary of a Somebody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Sunday 5****th**** August**

**16:06 — Yorkshire.**

So bloody bored.

So _bloody_ fed up.

I'm beginning to wonder how I ever managed before. How? Because I don't know what to do with myself anymore. The hours are dwindling away and I've done nothing productive or useful all day. Thank Merlin there's the Apothecary to occupy me during the week, though I can hardly say that has proved very inspiring recently. Still… I suppose I shall have to concentrate what paltry energies I have on that. Perhaps I could even start opening up on Sunday? Am sure I feel much better when I don't have to rattle around this dump all day. Hmm… I could then proceed to work myself into the ground and, with any luck, I'll simply die of exhaustion.

Sorted.

Humph.

In all seriousness, I know I even had ideas at some point… I had plans. Why should I forget them just because I've…

Anyway, I must have written them down in here somewhere, but am too afraid to go flicking back through this diary. Sat over it with an _Incendio_ poised for over an hour last night, but… I couldn't. Not even now, when it's a bigger reminder of my folly than ever before.

Bugger it. Not as if I've never faced my folly before. My whole life has been one big folly. Think I'll set it down somewhere that I'd like my epitaph to read:

Here lies Severus Tobias Snape

_Folly_

Well, there's my daily allowance of maudlin self-pity accounted for.

Regarding the apothecary: I know I need to spend some time spicing up my stock. Problem is, I need to take someone else on before efforts can be directed elsewhere. Further problem is an alarming lack of interest in the post I advertised.

Still, this _is_ my plan of action. Shall become apothecary extraordinaire and then she'll be bloody _sorry_.

**16:32**

As if.

**Monday 6****th**** August**

**18:56 – Home.**

Just when I thought I'd removed all trace of a particular person from this shit-hole, I've stumbled across one of her scarves. Bloody horrible thing it is too. Garish. Old-fashioned. Don't know what she was thinking.

…

Hope _I_ didn't buy it for her.

**19:10**

There we are; scarf is currently floating in the sea.

I now feel purged for the evening.

**Wednesday 8****th**** August**

**14:31 — Work.**

Dear me. Had an unexpected blast from the past today.

Was in the Ministry, renewing some of the contracts I have with them — nothing remarkable in this. However, on making my departure, who did I find myself sharing a lift with?

Bloody _Helena_ _Moran_. Legs and all!

'Hello there,' she said with one of her rather calculating smiles.

'Miss Moran,' I replied indifferently. 'How… nice to see you, again.'

She surveyed me in a way I wasn't entirely at ease with. Suddenly I was aware of my unkempt appearance… my dusty robes… my… Well, some might say I've let myself go in recent times, but that would be to assume I ever gave a shit about my appearance in the first place.

'Still with the Department of Mysteries?' The fact I was suddenly disposed to small-talk shows how uncomfortable I felt.

She nodded. 'Yes; it's Unspeakable Moran, now.' She said this with an entirely straight face, but I had to plumb new reserves of self-control to prevent a snort from issuing. _Unspeakable_ is certainly a word I'd apply to her. Still, despite being presented with her so suddenly, my mirth was swiftly superseded by a stab of resentment as I remembered my frustration during my tenure at the very bottom of that mysterious organisation she belonged to.

'Wilson still bumbling around down there?' I asked, not with any real interest, but a good deal of scorn.

'Oh no,' she replied, swinging her lengthy hair over her shoulder. 'He took early retirement after you went. He fell in the firing line after one of his recruits left classified documents on a Muggle train.'

Well, then. Always nice to know the place had fallen apart without me. It's funny; I always feel the same whenever I visit Hogwarts.

Fortuitously, the lift wasn't long in coming to a stop and we stepped out into the Atrium. People milled around everywhere and I wasn't sure whether I was worried we might bump into a certain curly-haired witch, or, indeed, whether I wished for it. Regardless of any pointless, pathetic, childish, resentful wishes, I thought it best to leave Miss Moran's company as soon as possible. I can't be sure, but I think a few of her top buttons may have come undone during the journey in the lift.

Before I could flee, however, she brought up precisely the topic occupying my thoughts (_not_ her buttons).

'Sorry to hear about you and Hermione Granger,' she said, not sounding very sorry at all, it must be said.

I frowned warningly, but she took no heed. In fact, she brazenly looked me up and down, musing:

'If I'd known you were looking for someone younger, I would have—'

That was it — I didn't bloody well dare hang around to listen to what she would have done, so I left, vowing never to return. Beginning to feel sympathy for Weasley—

Wait; shall cross that _right_ out.

Ugh.

**17:05**

In other news, have written to Jigger Junior to enquire whether he might know of anyone willing to work in a dank, smelly, cramped Apothecary with a grim, miserable old sod such as myself.

I don't anticipate a swift reply.

**Saturday 11****th**** August**

Oh dear.

An old man wandered into the Apothecary this afternoon, leaned on the counter and said:

'Jigger sent me.'

Merlin. I wasn't expecting Jigger to actually send someone along.

His introduced himself simply as 'Jessop' and, apparently, he used to work for Jigger back in the rather distant past. What depths of desperation have driven him to return, I just don't know. I decided not to waste the opportunity presented to me and sought to immediately determine this man's suitability. It shows how affected I've been by events of recent times, because all I said to him was:

'Do you know what a cauldron is?'

And when he replied affirmatively, I offered him the job there and then.

Funny how it's only after being chucked that I develop an impulsive streak, isn't it?

I've told this 'Jessop' to call in on Monday and I'll show him his duties. I don't doubt I'll live to regret it… and yet what harm can an old man do?

I bet I've hired a nutter.

**Sunday 12****th**** August**

Merlin; how quickly do these Sundays come around these days?

There must be something I can do that doesn't involve sitting around and _dwelling_.

**15:06**

Apparently, there isn't.

Thought an acceptable pastime would be to organise my desk. Was fine until I found my father's old car languishing in the back of a drawer. I sat there interminably, contemplating it. Pondering over how many months have passed since this palaver began. Considering why I'd never thought to restore the little car to its proper size; wondering why Hermione never offered me any driving lessons after all that prevarication we endured.

I ran the little car across the desk, thinking of its provenance. When did my father buy it? What had he used it for? Who else might have travelled in it over the years?

I spun it in a circle and watched as it tipped over onto its side. And then I dropped it to the floor and stamped on it underfoot.

It, too, is now floating out in the North Sea.

**Monday 12****th**** August**

**10:00 — Apothecary**

I've hired a nutter.

Dead on nine o'clock this morning the door swung open and a 'Morning!' boomed around the shop.

We'll not get on. He's… _jolly_. He's… _friendly_. He likes _chatter_. He calls me _boss_, and I hate that.

However, he does know what he's doing, so at the very least I can hide in the stock room and let him deal with the customers. And for that relief, I might be prepared to forgive anything.

_Might..._

**12:30**

The questions I've endured!

Am I married? Do I have children? How long have I been an apothecary? Where do I live? Bloody hell. I'm going to be in the Leaky before long before closing if this carries on. I bloody _hate_ people who are immune to the irritation of others.

How on earth will I put up with this?

**17:30**

It's time to go home; thank the Lord.

**Tuesday 13****th**** August**

Ha! Bloody _ha_!

Can't help but feel smug.

Potter brought his kids into the shop today (just what I've always longed for — Potter's children running wild amongst my livelihood). 'What do you want?' I said, by way of polite greeting.

The stupid boy actually replied: 'Nothing; just thought I'd pop in.'

'Well, how about you pop right back out?'

He simply ignored me to turn his attention to his eldest offspring, who had his hands in my supply of owl claws. Seems I've beaten Potter down so much he can't even register my disgust anymore. There wasn't even a bat of an eyelid in evidence. Or maybe I've just lost my touch somewhere along the way. What a surprise; gone down the drain like everything else in my bloody sorry life.

'You have five seconds to get your… _child_ under control, Potter; before I do it for you.'

He scowled, then. This wasn't my source of triumph, however. No. Potter ultimately revealed his real reason for his visit. Apparently, his wife saw me talking to Helena Moran the other day and _told_ Granger about it. Potter fears Ginevra may have got the 'wrong end of the stick' and clearly wanted my clarification on the matter.

I couldn't help it. I simply shrugged and warningly remarked that I wasn't sure it was anyone's business but mine. He blanched satisfyingly. Stepping up to the counter he lowered his voice and leaned forward. 'Listen Snape, I don't care what happened between you, but I'll not have Hermione made a fool of.'

'That's a warning, is it?'

He nodded firmly.

I bit my lip in an expression of studied anxiety. 'Dear me; how will I ever sleep tonight?'

Ha! I don't care how bitter and vindictive it sounds, but I'm glad. If Granger gets it into her head that I'm sniffing around Miss Moran, well then, that can't be helped, can it? I don't need to explain myself to anyone.

Good.

**17:54**

Actually, on reflection, it isn't good.

It isn't that satisfying. As if Miss Moran would really want to get involved with me. As if I would want to get involved with her. As if Hermione gives five sickles over what I get up to, anyway. She threw _me_ over, after all.

If anything, I've probably only succeeded in igniting her contempt… and that is not good at all. Probably feels sorry for me — imagining me to be out for some pathetic, petty revenge.

Why am I such an arse?

**Thursday 16****th**** August**

**20:00 — Yorkshire.**

Came home tonight to find a calling card had been pushed through the letterbox. A card from someone going by the name of 'Mr Pat Briggs'.

Mr Pat Briggs from 'Building Control' at the East Riding of Yorkshire council, to be precise.

Shit.

What the fuck is 'Building Control' when it's at home?

Suppose… Actually, suppose it's fairly self-explanatory... I think… And the only _building_ they can be interested in round here, and one that is mine, is… this house.

_Shit_.

The call must be regarding the state it's in. I thought the cliff hasn't been too bad lately; my spells are holding up quite well. Especially as I estimate a good two centimetres has disappeared further down the coast. Still, that's probably why they're interfering now. And with winter looming…

Whatever; they can piss off as far as I'm concerned. Not in the mood for this sort of hassle. If Pat bloody Briggs has the gall to turn up here again, I'll give him something to think about, and no mistake. Trust my cursed father to leave me saddled with such a bloody liability. Couldn't have been sitting on a few thousand quid, could he? No; he was sitting on a pile of worthless fucking _rubble_. No doubt, wherever he is, he's thoroughly enjoying my misfortune.

Bastard.

Bah. Feeling really pissed off now. Why is nothing ever straightforward? Why is there always someone lurking about ready to throw a spanner into the works? Why?

I've accumulated so many bloody spanners in my lifetime I could open up a bloody shop.

**Sunday 18****th**** August**

**13:05 — Bored. **

It's Sunday_ again_**.**

And, Merlin's arse, it's bloody boiling out. The only plus I thought Yorkshire had was that you could always rely on a brisk breeze, or a nice bank of clouds, rolling in off the sea. Not today, though. Only ventured out for a little stroll and I thought I was going to melt.

Hate Yorkshire; hate the summer; hate Sundays; hate…

Ah, I won't continue my list of ills; will run out of room, otherwise.

Actually, today hasn't been so very horrid. In fact, something odd happened when I was out — I almost felt invigorated. And I hate to write this rot (though I might as well because what else am I going to do?) but even _I_ couldn't entirely ignore how pleasant this landscape looked under the brightness of the sun. It doesn't happen often, but I cannot always remain untouched by colour. What is there to lament when the grass is green and the sky is blue and the sea is glittering…? When the air is still and the only sound is no sound at all? When—

Reading back through that paragraph, I fear maybe there _is_ something to lament, after all — my sanity.

Now, there's a lost cause if ever there was one.

**Monday 20****th**** August**

**9:56**

Have only been open fifty-six minutes and I've already had my ear chewed off. Whilst dusting, Jessop launched into a an impassioned soliloquy about his wife's cooking. I say 'soliloquy' because I shut myself in the cubby-hole office and he didn't even notice my disappearance.

Been in here for half an hour and I can still hear him talking.

Nutter.

**18:45**

There was a letter posted through my door today. It was addressed to my late, always lamented, father. Usually, I wouldn't have bothered with opening it, except I could see from the envelope that it was from the council — Pat Briggs again.

It is as I anticipated. The letter indicated their concern over the stability of my house. They fear that, owing to movement of the cliff, it has become structurally unsound. Unfortunately, I actually think they may be right. I went on a reconnaissance around the perimeter and it struck me that I hadn't really noticed the cracks before. Not the external ones, anyway.

Oh well.

Just one more thing to add to my list of everlasting woes.

Have been recently spurned, and now my only shelter is falling down around my ears. Excellent. Life, clearly, couldn't get any fucking better.

All I need now is for profits in the Apothecary to plummet, to fall behind in my repayments to the goblins, and generally find my life crumbled around my ears.

Don't know how I'll be able to get out of bed tomorrow.

**Wednesday 22****nd**** August**

I feel hesitant about committing this to parchment, but I think something might be going right in my life.

Jessop, irritating, loud, and convivial he may be, isn't doing a bad job. He seems reliable enough. And to avoid his chatter and patter, I simply take myself off into the back. I always fear quiet spells, however, because then he usually seeks me out to talk at. Not talk to. Talk _at_.

He's harmless enough, though. Couldn't put up with him for more than three days a week, mind.

I'm sure I'd be in Azkaban within a month, otherwise.

**Sunday 26th August**

Am filled with shame and despair.

I should be taken out and shot after what I've done today. No excuses. _No_ excuse whatsoever. In a lifetime of low points, this ranks well up there with the best of them.

I actually went to a Quidditch match today with Potter and Weasley.

What do I do? I don't know whether to _Obliviate_ myself, or to _Obliviate_ them, or to simply reach for the poison and end it all right now…

Was sitting in the Leaky, contemplating death, when Weasley suddenly loped into view saying, 'Told you if he wasn't at home he'd be here.'

Lovely. Weasley has apparently documented my movements and now feels he can predict them. If that wasn't soul-destroying enough, his companion soon revealed himself to be Potter. A rather glum looking Potter, it must be said.

'Want to come to the Quidditch with us?' Weasley continued, and when he said, 'Come on, we'll go to the match and then get pissed afterwards,' I could only think, 'Why the fuck not?' And that's very much the _wrong_ response. What I, ordinarily, should have done was to blast Weasley twenty feet into the air and bade him never to return — because it was a _mistake_ to go.

The match was shit. The company was shit. Everything was shit. Not one of us enjoyed ourselves. About halfway through the match, Weasley's bonhomie descended rather alarmingly into a misanthropic rant. Must have been the pre-match pints he downed, I think. Over the crowd, he started loudly proclaiming how wonderful it was to be able to go out without anyone (any woman) around to nag and moan.

'Don't you think, Harry?' he questioned blusteringly. 'Don't you think, Snape?'

And when, towards the end, the Harpies started giving away points, he got to his feet and started yelling obscenities at the players. _I_ only wondered if I should consider throwing myself over the railings, into the stands below, and have done with it right there.

Even Potter, Quidditch fanatic, had a face like a smacked arse all afternoon.

In the bar afterwards, we were only remarkable for our despondency. Weasley's animation had fizzled out to be replaced by vacant silence. No doubt the spectre of his own Quidditch career was haunting him. If it were anyone else, I might wonder why they hadn't foreseen that difficulty, but it's Weasley so it's obvious. And as it turns out, Potter, apparently, had had a falling out with his wife only a few hours prior to the match. His moping irritated me so much I nearly slapped some bloody self-respect into him. Nearly; because then I remembered how rich that would be coming from _me_.

Because there I was — realising my hope that Hermione would be pissed off with my involvement with Potter and Weasley was really rather pathetic and pointless.

No matter how pathetic and pointless I may be, this is the last time I bother with Potter or Weasley or anyone of that cursed generation. Maybe I'll go up to Hogwarts and see some of the old crowd. Re-establish some equilibrium. Restore my perspective. Merlin; what do I sound like?

Occurs to me I'd do well to find some acquaintances of my own age. Those I once had are either dead or incarcerated now… Hmm, it's a curious pattern, indeed… Something tells me I may not be the beacon of good luck I always thought I was.

Ha.

**Wednesday 29****th**** August**

Oh bloody, _bloody_ hell.

Had half day today. Thought I'd go home at lunchtime and spend the afternoon deliberating over a new range of potions to sell in the apothecary. I threw off my robe, ignored my ever-present headache, scowled against ever-occurring thoughts of a certain witch, and put all my efforts into productive expenditure.

Was fine until I happened to notice something rather odd. Something rather unexpected.

Something that turned out to be a man, a Muggle man, standing in my back garden and taking _photographs_. I leapt to my feet and watched him, dumbstruck, through the kitchen window. Incensed, I hastened to the back door, pausing just in time to recall my attire and the questions it could possibly raise. I only had to time to yank off my cravat before I stepped out into the garden.

'What the hell do you think you are doing?' I hissed.

The man with the camera, a man of some sixty years and dressed in a tweed suit, paused in his snapping to beam at me in surprise. 'Ah!' he exclaimed jovially. 'I've been trying to get in touch for some time. I was hoping to see Mr Toby Snape, but you'll do, Mister…?'

He stepped forward and offered his hand. Yes. It was Pat bloody Briggs from the council. The bloody building inspector.

'What are you doing here?' I spat, ignoring his hand.

Briggs sucked in a breath and shook his head sadly. 'Bad business, I'm afraid.' He sighed a lament and looked to the cliff edge. 'Bloody shame it is, too.'

As he stared out over the horizon, I contemplated a swift _Obliviate_.

'Would you look at this place?' he boomed suddenly. 'S'bloody true what they say, it's—'

'God's own country,' I interposed with no small amount of derision.

Briggs swivelled round with a temperate smile on his face. 'Forgive an old Yorkshireman his foibles.'

I've had enough of Yorkshiremen and their so-called foibles to last me a lifetime. And then some.

'Now then,' said Briggs, folding his arms and staring up at the house. 'This dwelling, I'm sorry to say, is unsafe.'

'Really.'

He peered at me through gold-rimmed spectacles and I stared resolutely back. Some of his jollity faded into a faint frown. 'See here.' He pointed to the wall. 'This crack in the masonry doesn't bode well. Cracks around the lintels, too; classic case of subsidence.'

I may have huffed dismissively here.

'The cliff is moving and so are the foundations. I'm afraid the bottom line is, it is unsafe for anyone remain here for any length of time.'

'Forgive me; this is your concern, why…?'

'The building must be made safe. In this instance, the only option is for it to come down.'

This is the trouble living in the Muggle world. Interference everywhere you bloody well go. I'm not having it.

'I think you should leave. Now.'

His expression flickered and his eyes seemed to glance involuntarily towards the gate. However, he clearly had no intention of departing straightaway. Instead, he stuffed his camera inside his jacket and turned contemplative.

'Is Tobias around? Bloody years since I've clapped eyes on the old git.'

'He's dead.'

Briggs looked awkward for a moment. 'Ah,' he murmured. 'I'm sorry to hear it. We were acquainted many years ago; shared a few drinks together back in the day.' He chuckled to himself whilst I stood there nonplussed.

'You're obviously a relative—'

'I'm his son,' I interrupted. I said it with almost a real sense of relish, because part of me takes bitter pleasure in knowing my father never once mentioned me to his cronies. His shame was that complete.

'Oh, I didn't… Well, Mr Snape, the fact remains this building cannot simply be left to fall into the sea. There are measures which must be taken and if you fail to comply, I am bound to inform you that the council may have to take enforcement action against you.'

I simply stared. He was wary of me, I could tell this even without utilising the magic that I did. I contemplated more serious magical measures against him, but Obliviating one Muggle is not going to solve the problem I have with this house. If it isn't Briggs who returns, it'll be someone else. No; it is a matter that's going to need subtler thought.

'I'll look forward to it. Now, kindly close the gate on your way out,' I advised smoothly, before disappearing into the house.

Got myself into a bit of a mess here and I'm not sure how to rectify it. I could ward the house against Muggles… but in the process, risk getting into hot water with the Ministry. The Muggles, after all, would surely notice the complete disappearance of a house overnight.

I should never have moved back here. It was a mistake from the bloody start.

Enforcement action? I'll give him bloody enforcement action. Who does he think he is?

Prick.

**Friday 31****st**** August**

**22:45 — Home.**

Fucking shit night.

Thought it might be all right. Thought it wouldn't be too bad. Thought it'd be at least a sense of normality after my indiscretion with Potter and Weasley. Even the pre-match ribbing didn't bother me too much. Because, naturally, as soon as I arrived at the Three Broomsticks, I had to endure the requisite grilling/abuse the crones like to eagerly dole out to injured parties such as myself.

'What happened, then?' Pomona asked. Her compassionate expression soon split into a grin as she added: 'Hermione eventually found the counter-curse, did she?'

Oh, how they cackled.

'We're only teasing. We were very disappointed to hear you'd gone your separate ways.' They all nodded sombrely, and then:

'Disappointed, yes; but surprised, no.'

I'd like to know when my personal circumstances became such a source of amusement. Minerva looked a little uneasy during this merriment. No doubt she thought I was going to fly off the handle and spit back some vitriolic attack. But… actually, I think I enjoyed being teased. With my history, I'm hardly about to feel indignant. Regardless that it fell apart in the end, the fact remains I actually had a six month relationship with a woman. _And_ she knew she was having it with me, as well…

A novelty…

Still, things were to go downhill from there, because the night couldn't quite pass without a further reference to that woman. Horace accosted me at some point, slapping me heartily on the back and exclaiming, 'Severus! Good to see you out and about, my boy.'

There was any number of things for me to take offence at in this declaration, but I bit my tongue, grimaced, and simply nodded. By God I've never met anyone so completely oblivious in my life. He's on his own, of that there is no doubt. He'd get on well with my newly-acquired assistant, I bet. They could talk each other to death and do us all a favour.

Anyway, Horace sat beside me, leaned in conspiratorially and said, 'I saw Miss Granger the other day. Bumped into her in Flourish and Blott's. I tried to pretend I hadn't noticed her, but of course, she insisted on speaking to me. With some tall, handsome fellow, she was. I mean really, these youngsters today have no shame, do they? I took my leave as soon as I could. Mark me; you're better off without her.' He paused to draw breath, and then he was lurching towards the bar to replenish our tankards.

I suppose he means well, but he tries my last nerve sometimes. In the spirit of indifference, I sought to ignore Horace's words. After all, I don't trust him as far as I can throw him, so anything he says I take with a liberal pinch of salt. Doesn't mean I didn't feel a stab of contempt for this 'tall, handsome fellow,' whether he exists or not. Or that I didn't spend several hours contemplating tracking him down. There's this curse that I know…

Best not go any further…

Horace wasn't the worst of it, however. When I took my leave, I overheard some remarks between Minerva and Pomona. They were stood inside the porch, collecting their hats, and the drink had removed any inhibitions regarding the volume of their speech.

'Poor Severus,' bemoaned Pomona dramatically. 'Doesn't he look so very miserable?'

'More so than usual,' Minerva agreed dryly.

Pomona heaved a large sigh. 'It's a great pity. That girl has probably sentenced him to another twenty years of thwarted feeling and discontent.'

'I fear you may be right; he's never been one to do anything by halves, after all.'

'We'll see him right,' sounded Pomona's voice after a time. 'Did I ever tell you about my niece? Lovely girl. I think she could be a good match…'

The sound of the voices filtered away as they began the walk back to the castle. I was stuck to the spot for some time, energies channelled towards suppressing the urge to tear after them and demand that they keep their wretched noses out of my wretched business lest my wand ensures it for them.

Because I'm _not_ destined to spend another twenty years moping.

I'm not.

**00:05**

I've just realised I have not seen any sight of… her… for a whole month. I've tried not to think about it, but the fact remains she's made no further approach to me and… is this really it?

Is it?

Why was it I was always bumping into her when I couldn't stand her, and _now_ I might not see her again for weeks, or months on end?

It's fine. It's all fine. Who cares? It's finished with now.

_Accio_ Ogden's.

**00:15**

Bugger it.

I need to see her.

* * *

><p>AN: Apologies for the delay! I hope the next chapter won't be as long in coming!<p>

Thanks for reading and reviewing; always appreciated. And thanks to Cave Felem too.


	9. September

**The Diary of a Somebody**

**Tuesday 4th September**

**14:56 — Work. **

Aim to bump into bushy-haired know-it-all has not borne out.

And painful as it is to physically scribe, I'll admit to visiting all the usual haunts in the hope of a chance meeting. Mind, not that we had many haunts. There was the Leaky, of course, and the Three Broomsticks, and… Christ; is it any wonder she became fed up of me?

So, short of lurking outside her chambers in the Wizengamot, or spying on her house, I'm stumped, really.

Maybe it's for the best. After all, have no idea what I'd say if I did see her.

If I were the optimistic sort, I'd put my faith into good old fashioned patience and… Why am I even bothering to contemplate optimism? I'm pathologically pessimistic and, therefore, can only turn to Ogden's for comfort. And Old Ogden is telling me I'm a pathetic waste of space; a waste of space who should simply do everyone a favour and 'get over it'.

Get a life you stupid old arse and stop wallowing in the past.

Never had reason to doubt Old Ogden before, have I?

Nope.

**Wednesday 5th September**

**16:00**

Oh dear.

Good luck alert.

Just had a glance at the books and takings have been well up these last few weeks. No doubt owing to all the kids going back to Hogwarts for the new term, I expect. I let Jess deal with most of them — I just reap the rewards.

Perhaps I'll pay myself a little bonus this month, to cheer me up. And I know exactly what I'll spend it on.

Booze.

Or maybe I'll book myself a five star holiday to some swanky resort. Ha. That'll show her what's she's missing.

Take a look at what you could have had, Granger.

Hmm; have terrible feeling I've lost my marbles good and proper this time.

Oh well.

**Saturday 8th September**

Bugger…

Arrived home tonight to find an official-looking letter waiting for me. Its contents were not entirely agreeable, I must say. It would appear the Muggle authorities have given me seven days' notice to make clear my intentions regarding my house. How generous of them. How courteous of them.

Well, I can give them my answer straightaway.

It's 'fuck off'.

Cheeky bastards.

**Sunday 9th September**

Sunday again.

Excellent.

**Monday 10th September**

**15:06 — Pissed off.**

Humph**.**

Don't know what's the matter with me. I wrecked a whole batch of Pepper-up today. And it wasn't because I was hungover. It was just inattention; how disgustingly pedestrian of me... This can't be allowed to continue. It's inexcusable that a potioneer of my calibre, and not to mention a man of my self-discipline, can leave a room looking like Longbottom has been given free reign.

Have I lost my mind? It would be the icing on the cake for me right now — to end up putting sub-standard potions on the shelves. And where is my mind? Not worrying about my housing situation, that's for sure.

I don't know; it's all going wrong. I don't seem to have got anywhere lately... Everything seems so monotonous and stagnant — _I_ feel stagnant. And I can relate it all in the time since that fateful day in June. It's unbearably maddening, because why should I continue to bother myself about it? What's the point? Surely by now I've learnt this lesson? I seem to have been learning it for most of my sorry life.

And yet… sometimes I feel there_ is_ unfinished business. Most of the time I can only think how equivocal her last words were, but yes, sometimes, I do wonder…

No. There isn't, really, anything left to resolve between us. She may even have started seeing someone else… Maybe Horace had it right…

Maybe…

That's done it. I'll never be able to finish brewing today. Bloody great. Stupid, maudlin, self-obsessed, _arse_.

**Thursday 13th September**

**23:00 — Home.**

Went to the Leaky after work.

Was lurking in there on the off-chance that… Well, admittedly, the off-chance of encountering Granger was rather more tangential this time. To claim my over-arching desire to get pissed wasn't my main reason for being there would be a bare-faced lie. And I never lie…

Anyway, about nine o'clock, and several pints in, from my carefully judged perch I spied Potter and his wife enter. Half-frozen with anticipation and thinking my luck was finally in, I watched for any continuing contingent. Alas, they were bloody alone. Typical. Nothing ever goes right, does it?

Perhaps disproportionately disappointed, I slammed my glass down onto the table so hard the beer jumped out and slopped all over me. Lovely. Angry, irritated, and pathetic, I intended to admit defeat, i.e. down a swift whisky and then go home to do it all over again.

But, like a lot of things I do, it was a mistake.

It was a mistake because, while dithering at the bar, my mind started careering off in directions it ought not to. Instead of sloping off home, what I actually ended up doing was sloping towards Potter and his wife. I know why I did it. It was because I thought I might glean some information regarding the bane of my life. It was because I'm a pathetic, old, stupid arse.

Still, Potter looked positively delighted to see me. I was touched. 'All right, mate?' he greeted brightly, holding out his hand.

I wasn't touched. I had to hold back the vomit as I acknowledged his greeting and sat down.

'How's, ah, things?' I asked awkwardly.

I don't know why I felt awkward. Potter was more than content to launch into an ode to his wonderful children, his fantastic job and his generally all-round fucking fabulous life. If expressions could curdle, mine must have been a picture. Even his wife looked embarrassed.

'How about you?' Potter finally asked, when his enthusiasm had finally subsided. He must have been well on his way to being pissed; I've never seen him look quite so manic before.

'Oh, fine,' I remarked shortly, enjoying his visible consternation at my aloofness. Even Ginevra hid a smile.

'You having another one, then?' He nodded to my empty tumbler when the silence became too much for him.

I slid my glass across the table. 'You always were slow on the uptake, Potter.'

As soon as he was out of earshot, his wife leaned over. 'I'm sorry about that; he's had a few tonight.'

'Pissed before nine o'clock… You must be so proud.'

It was only a joke, but her expression dropped like a stone. 'He never used to drink very much until he started bothering with _you.'_

Eh?

'I couldn't believe the state he was after that Quidditch match the other week. You and Ron may have sorrows to drown, but can you leave my husband out of it, please?'

I only stared.

'And another thing, while we're at it,' she said, leaning over the table. 'Could you drown your sorrows with someone other than that Moran piece? Harry told me you wouldn't deny seeing her. Not that Hermione cares, of course.'

Fuuuuuck!

Bugger it all. Nothing _ever_ goes right.

Humph.

**Friday 14th September**

Briggs from Building Control has been back. A card was dropped through my door. Of course, seven days has passed since I received that letter from them. What now? I suppose I'm going to have to do something, but what? Can I, in actual fact, be bothered to resist?

And yet, why should I turn my property over to them? The cliff, and the house, aren't in immediate danger of collapse. I reckon I could squeeze another year or two out of the house, easily.

Why can't I be left alone?

If this Briggs bloke has the gumption to turn up on my doorstep again, I'll show him a new meaning to Building Control.

**Sunday 16th September**

**11:00 — Bored.**

Sunday, again.

…

**Wednesday 19th September**

**22:31 — Bed. **

Piss-awful day.

I had intended to mark this particular day without any sort of comment or description. In fact, I'd resolved to spend this day mired in both denial and defiance. Drenched in booze would also have been acceptable. My determination to ignore all connotations of this day was holding out rather well. In fact, I don't think I stopped for a cup of tea all day. The shop is also spick and span.

However, I didn't anticipate the disturbance that befell me this evening.

That is, _she_… _knocking on my bloody door_!

My first thought was that Pat Briggs was trying his luck outside normal working hours, so I wrenched the door open half prepared to blast him across the North sea. What I actually found was a bushy-haired know-it-all who, it must be said, didn't quite dampen my urge for blasting people across the sea.

Interesting, that.

Nevertheless, the surprise was acute. 'Feel free to tell me to bugger off,' she said, by way of greeting, whilst I set about picking my jaw up off the floor.

And, again, despite the (annoyingly pleasurable) surprise of seeing her there, and despite having longed for this occasion, I saw myself telling her quite categorically to do precisely that.

'_Bugger off, Granger. Bugger off back to where you buggering well came from.'_

Then I'd slam the door in her face, turn on my heel, breathe a sigh of infinite relief, and take comfort in my impressive strength of character. And maybe a few years ago, the satisfaction and resentment would have been too much of a draw for me to resist. But a few years ago, I would never have countenanced ever getting embroiled in a situation such as this. So… That I found the magnanimity to bite my tongue and allow her inside highlights either a weakening of my character, or simply the onset of insanity. Possibly both, even.

'Happy birthday,' I remarked blandly, perversely enjoying the stiffening of her shoulders and the immediately palpable tension. 'Thanks,' she answered with a small sigh. I took the sigh to mean she wasn't unmindful of the significance of her being here on this day. Yet, I wondered at her marking it out in this way. After all, it's suggestive she should seek me out on this day, again, after everything? Isn't it? Or is it just me?

Whatever; there was no wine bottle in evidence this time. Pity.

'What can I do for you?' I enquired in a business-like tone.

_Then_ it was awkward. The silence, that is. Her mouth opened and closed a couple of times, but no sound issued. With a look of consternation, her eyes landed beseechingly on the door. Whatever her motive — whatever she wanted to say — I didn't want her to go without saying it. Not after all these irritating moments when I've nearly dashed to her front door and demanded an audience.

God; I need a good punch. Dash? When the fuck have I ever _dashed_ anywhere? I've been spending too much time with Potter.

Anyway —

'Drink?' I asked, almost leaping to my feet in my haste to ensure she had no chance to refuse. Eager has never been a good look on me, I must say. Further irritation was to be felt when I reached into the cupboard to retrieve some wine, only to unleash the unmistakable sound of rattling empties. I hope she doesn't think I've spent the last few weeks battling for sobriety. It hasn't been quite _that_ desperate.

Has it? Suppose it has been a bit blurry…

'How's the Apothecary?' sounded her voice eventually.

'Fine,' I replied as I Summoned some glasses. 'Jess has proved more of a help than a hindrance.'

There was a pregnant pause before she said, 'Who's Jess?'

My back was to her, so I allowed myself to smile. I thought she might have heard along the grapevine about my new employee, but apparently I was wrong.

'My assistant,' I explained cryptically, turning and placing her glass before her.

She sipped from it slowly. 'I'm, ah, glad you found someone to take on. She must have some qualifications to gain your approval…'

I listened hard for any sound of bitterness, but if I detected it, I can't be sure whether I imagined it or not. 'Indeed,' I acknowledged. Maybe I should have corrected her use of the wrong pronoun, but, what the hell. It felt too good. Besides, she can't have been much bothered about me recently not to have heard about my new colleague. Potter and Weasley know all about him, after all. They're fast becoming my most regular customers—

_(Lord_. Need to put a stop to that!)

It's true; I decided her mind cannot have turned to me much of late, and suddenly, I felt paralysed by a sense, yet again, of my own inadequacy. For my sins, the realisation she'd probably felt little curiosity about the state of my existence pricked at me keenly. I physcially couldn't bring myself to continue the small talk and reciprocate her enquiries in kind. Consequently, the awkward tension morphed, for me, into the crippling clarity that, once again, I've been wasting my _pathetic_ time. And pathetically, I sought to suffer this via an extensive draught of port.

I sat in front of her, eyes blank (I hope), face inscrutable (ditto), epitome of lofty indifference and decided I should not have to be the only one to feel discomfort. I wanted her to feel pathetic, too. I wanted her to feel inadequate and… expendable. Like me.

Maybe it worked. I couldn't really tell. But more often than not, my perpetually dour and aloof demeanour never fails me. Probably, I succeeded in the impression I could sit there all night with not a flicker of concern for my companion, nor, indeed, the situation we were in.

Of course, the great irony is she might argue it is precisely this type of behaviour which drove her away in the first place. But such is the obstinacy of my character that I didn't let it sway me.

Not immediately, anyway. But... I _was_ swayed. I was relying on the certainty she wouldn't withstand the silence so readily. It was simply a matter of time before she'd crack, I thought. So I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

When I felt close to spontaneously combusting, I ventured a glance to find her clearly lost in some sort of daydream. It annoyed me. How dare she inflict herself upon me with no explanation whatever? How dare she sit there, silent, unmoving, and by all accounts, unbothered?

'My father had exquisite taste in carpet, I quite agree,' I said, when it became too much for me.

She looked at me dumbly.

'Well, you seem fairly enamoured of it.' I lifted my eyebrows expectantly.

'Oh, you didn't know I was a carpet-fancier?'

She smiled a small smile and I had to forcibly restrain any similar reaction. My refusal to be drawn into humour caused her to shift uncomfortably. 'Look,' she began suddenly. 'I should explain why I'm here… It's been a long time since we last… I suppose what I'm saying is, I thought — hoped — we might remain friends…'

I didn't know where to look. Friends? Just what I've always bloody wanted — another friend who I just happen to be in… difficulty with. Bah. I should dearly have liked to dismiss her out of hand. I should have liked to refute any notion of friendship with her. But it was that ever-present, down-trodden… hurt, pathetic part of me which made me think twice. Tell her to get lost, I thought, and I probably wouldn't see her again. Yet, to agree would be to place myself in even deeper torment.

Torment? Merlin; how tortured I am! How deplorably _melodramatic_. Anyway, as it turned out, it didn't much matter what I decided, for events conspired to resolve the situation rather neatly for us. Indeed, I'll be surprised if I ever see her around here again. In fact, I'll be surprised if she ever says two words to me ever again.

'Friends,' I found myself remarking in such a way as if the word was new to me (let's face it, it's not one I use often). 'I'm not sure I really do friendship, or, as we have seen, any sort of relationship, in fact.' I smiled.

In hindsight, it all sounded a bit too bitter for my liking. That's probably why I tried to divert attention by retreating to the sideboard and pouring further libation. I prevaricated by pretending to search for my Ogden's. And when I finally found it, I poured the slowest double-measure known to man. As it happened, I needn't have bothered with my routine. When I looked to see why she hadn't even acknowledged my words, I found her staring at a pile of papers that were haphazardly placed on the table at her feet.

'What are these?' she asked, picking up the papers and leafing through them.

I was momentarily frozen; struck with annoyance that I hadn't thought to get rid of them. How typically _her_ to feel she had a right to rifle through them. That's something I don't miss; her unending curiosity and insufferable interference.

I took note of her surprised frown with a little flicker of foreboding.

'You've been… summoned to appear in Muggle Court,' she declared with a shocked quaver.

Of course, she'd found my letters from the council regarding my so-called 'dangerous structure.' The most recent has explained their decision to initiate legal proceedings against me. Cocky bastards.

Putting down my tumbler, I crossed to her and all but snatched the documents from her, crumpling them resolutely into my fist. The action seemed to ignite her into life.

'Oh, don't tell me you've been ignoring this?' she burst out suddenly, shaking her head disbelievingly. 'You _can__'__t_—'

I couldn't stand to see her look at me so patronisingly. 'Forgive me,' I hissed. 'But what exactly does this have to do with you?'

Now on her feet, she approached me earnestly. 'What are you going to do? This is serious, Severus.'

Serious? No it's not. It's plainly simple. No one can make me vacate what's mine. The Muggles are just wasting their time. It's as simple as me and her being clearly unsuited to each other.

Her hand shot out. 'Let me look at them—'

'No,' I hissed sharply, putting the papers out of her reach. 'I'll deal with it how _I_ see fit.'

'You aren't _dealing_ with it—' she scoffed loudly.

'Why exactly are you here?' I peered down at her fixedly, and though it was the first time I'd looked at her, properly looked at her in some time, I was too angry to register the novelty of it. Too angry to reacquaint myself with the curl of her hair, or the warmth of her eyes. All I saw was someone who'd thrown me over and now thought she still had the right to interfere.

'In what possible situation could you imagine I'd desire your help, hmm?' I spat.

And that was it. Her eyes flashed with emotion. I thought she was going to retort vehemently, but the words appeared to catch in her throat. 'You've been asked to appear in Court—'

'_And_?'

'I can advise you on—'

'If I wanted your help, I'd ask for it.'

Well… needless to say, the sound of her Disapparating rang dully in the silence that followed.

I know why I was such a bastard. I hate that she knows I've got myself into a pickle. I hate that she knows I've no remedy for it, either. But I don't want her help. I don't want to be beholden to her. Once upon a time, I wouldn't have minded, but… what do I have left if not my pride?

**22:25**

Of course, fully realise pride isn't going to keep me warm when my house has toppled into the sea.

**22:34**

Bottom line: I blew it.

I had the opportunity I've been lately hoping for, and I blew it.

There we are, then; I'm consistent, if nothing else.

All's well with the world, yet a-bloody-gain.

**Thursday 20th September**

**07:21**

Feel like shit.

**12:00**

Still feel like shit.

To make matters worse, Jess has been humming all morning. It was only the thought of the paperwork that held me back from accidentally-on-purpose hexing him into oblivion.

**Friday 21st September**

Went to Hogwarts this morning. Had some phials to deliver; phials I'd rather deliver by hand than entrust to an owl. I could have sent Jess, I suppose, but felt like a breath of fresh air.

Besides, by some (engineered) chance, the delivery was due to be made during the mid-morning break, and I didn't want to Jess to have to put up with the house-elves plying him with tea and biscuits, did I?

Oh no.

After depositing my cargo, I headed straight to the staff room. Minerva greeted me upon arrival. 'Hello, Severus,' she said. 'You've arrived just in time for tea.'

'Have I?' I replied casually, already settled into an armchair with a mug and a plate of shortbread. 'How fortuitous.'

As it turned out, it wasn't that fortuitous, for the headmistress came to stand beside my chair and proceeded to loom large. I always know what this action precipitates.

'Actually, Severus,' she continued. 'I'm glad you're here. I've something I need to discuss with you.'

I couldn't hear for the alarm bells ringing in my head. Minerva wore that stern, tight frown that always tells me I've done something to displease her and shall be in for an imminent talking-to.

'Perhaps we could go somewhere quieter?' she posed, nodding at the door.

I groaned inwardly and gulped down my tea, much to the displeasure of my tonsils, I must say. 'You know I never miss an opportunity to be alone with you,' I murmured resignedly, getting to my feet.

We hadn't got very far down the hallway before she began boldly stating her case. 'I've been talking to Miss Granger—'

! ! !

'Oh no,' I interrupted firmly. 'Stop _right_ there.'

She looked at me impatiently, but I wasn't going to stand for it. I knew precisely what she wanted to talk about. How dare Granger go blabbing to all and sundry about my problems? Does she not know the meaning of discretion? I thought people of her profession were supposed to live by it?

'Severus, I'm concerned—'

'Forget what Granger told you, she had no right. And besides, I can handle a few interfering Muggles, all right?'

'No, it's not all right—'

I turned to leave, feeling there was little point in me hanging around. 'Good day to you.'

I stormed off towards the entrance hall without another word, entirely ignoring her lengthy huff of disapproval. Merlin. Is it too much to ask for a peaceful life? Ugh. I can just imagine the two of them tutting and sighing over my predicament; no doubt bemoaning my 'male pride' and 'obstinacy' in the way women always feel justified in doing. Well, I resent their pedantry. I resent their self-satisfied, narcissistic _fussing_.

For the umpteen _millionth_ time: if I want to live in a house that's crumbling away, then I bloody well _shall_!

Simple.

The old witch, it seems, wasn't finished, however.

'You can't stay in that house forever, Severus! By all accounts, it's falling down. Why won't you let Hermione help you?'

'Minerva, if the whole bloody building crashes down around my ears and buries me in my bloody bed, then so be it,' I announced flippantly. Fate would be doing me a kindness, actually. 'In short, will you and Granger put a bloody sock in it? It's nothing to do with you, and it's certainly nothing to do with _her.'_

I faced her to ensure my point had been made. Alas, I discovered Minerva had been joined by Horace, who'd clearly been lurking and earwigging at the same time. He stepped forward, eyes popping mournfully.

'Are you still pining for the young Miss Granger, Severus?'

I scowled violently. Merlin, could he have put it any worse than that?

'Forgive me, Minerva,' Horace continued obliviously, putting a hand on her shoulder. 'I'd like to have a chat with Severus here, you know, ah, man to man.'

Man to man? I'm quite sure Minerva was only a hairs breadth away from laughing in his face, but with studied stoicism, she patted Horace and walked back to the staff room.

'Horace—'

'Now, Severus,' the little man said forcefully. 'Walk with me.'

He shuffled off down the hallway and I had little option but to follow.

'We've known each other for a long time, now, haven't we?'

'It's been... an age, indeed.'

'Exactly, dear boy. Which is why I feel I must offer the wisdom of my experience.'

'Really?'

We were now outside in the grounds and he looked at me, trying hard to appear the old, wise sage, but managing only to look slightly demented.

'I've been considering talking to you about this, especially since Minerva has expressed such real concern over matters between you and the former Mrs Weasley.'

For fuck's sake!

'Women, my dear Severus, are a funny bunch. But, unfortunately, such is the way of things that we men cannot do without them… from time to time.'

His expression became vacant for a few moments, before he blinked and said, 'Am I right?'

'Horace—'

Suddenly, his hand was on my arm.

'I _understand_, Severus.' He shook my arm in what he must have thought a reassuring gesture. 'I understand how you must be feeling. But take it from someone who knows — from someone who's been there. You don't _need_ Miss Granger. You don't need the trivialities and the banalities of a relationship—'

'_Horace_—'

He cut me off , leaping a little on the spot and raising his hands imploringly.

'We're men of science, Severus!' he burst out wondrously. 'We're men of reason and fact!'

His eyes bulged alarmingly as he stared at me. I considered alerting Poppy, because I could barely understand what he was getting at.

'Horace, I don't—'

His voice suddenly dropped and he leaned in close. 'Look, I know somewhere — very discreet, I assure you — where you can go to, ah, alleviate, you know, ah, to forget about that Granger woman…'

I couldn't believe my ears. I was dumbfounded.

His cheeks reddened slightly at my evidently unimpressed reaction. 'Not that I've been there personally, of course.' He clasped his hands together uneasily. 'A, ah, friend told me—'

I let out a dazed, amused chuckle. 'My dear Horace,' I said, mimicking his previously patronizing tone. 'I hope our esteemed Headmistress is unaware of your nocturnal pursuits…'

His eyes dropped meekly to the floor. 'Now, hang on, I was merely trying to help you, Severus—'

'Hmm, I suppose we could tell her it was all in the name of — how did you put it? — ah, yes, _science_.'

Now his countenance spoke more of the Slytherin cunning that he, unfortunately, is often apt to forget. 'All right, what's it worth?'

'A single malt should do nicely, my friend.'

His face screwed up into a resigned frown. I grasped his shoulder and squeezed it. 'Never fear; no one will hear of your depravity from me.'

I smiled and set off quickly to the gates. That'll teach him to stick his nose in. Merlin. I'm going to have nightmares tonight.

Mind, I've always thought Horace had a bit of the old pervert about him.

**Tuesday 25th September**

**9:00**

Am supposed to be in court today.

I wonder what'll happen when I don't appear?

Hmm, maybe I should ready myself to execute a moonlight flit? Ha. There'll be no Muggles arriving anywhere near this house tonight. I've made absolutely sure of _that_.

**Saturday 29th September**

**18:21 — Yorkshire.**

I can't believe this. I really can't.

I received a letter today from the Muggle court. It was only out of curiosity that I opened it, rather than bin it. I'm bloody well glad I didn't ignore it.

Because it turns out the court has agreed to give me three months to leave my premises and make the 'danger' safe. How could they decide this when I failed to even appear at the hearing?

Well, according to the missive, it was done so on the basis of the 'representation' made by my solicitor.

My _solicitor_? Who the hell? I have no solicitor. Can Muggles do _anything_ right? What the bloody fu—

Oh.

Oh bugger.

I think I know what's happened.

**19:00 — Two whiskies later.**

I've a terrible feeling I know precisely what has gone on here.

This must be what has happened. I can't believe it.

I can see it all. It's all fallen neatly into place. Oh yes, it's very clear-cut…

How dare she do this? How dare she just take it upon herself to… _presume_ that I cannot manage my own affairs? Have I ever met such an infuriating, irritating, interfering know-it-all-do-gooder before? Have I?

The answer is a resounding, all-encompassing _no_.

Well, I've had enough. I'm not standing for this any longer.

And I'm going straight to her to inform her of this. Right now. _Right now._

**19:45**

Oh buggery.

Major fuck-up this time.

Can't write it down now — too angry.

**Sunday 30th September**

**9:45 — Bed.**

Things, surprisingly enough, don't look any better this morning. In fact, I can't stop cringing. Or wincing. Or pressing my palms to my eyes and gripping my hair tightly in desperate effort to block out the flashbacks.

Have also tried smothering self with pillow. No luck.

So I… Well, I Apparated straight to her house and, ah, pounded on her door. I didn't bother waiting; I pushed the handle and marched straight in. This was to be my first mistake.

I — there's no other way to put it — burst into her living room and found her on the edge of her chair, stricken with surprise. She was decked in the ridiculous garb of the Wizengamot, a bottle of wine was open on the stool by her chair, and if I'd cared to really look, I suppose I would have detected she was a little… frazzled. Alas, I was blinded by indignation.

'What on earth are you doing here?' she exclaimed loudly, understandably shocked, I suppose, by my unceremonious entrance.

I shoved the letter under her nose. 'Explain,' I demanded harshly.

Her shoulders sagged and a livid flush immediately flooded her face. She shrugged 'Well, I… It's ah—'

I used her discombobulating to what I thought was my advantage. Of course, as usual, the reality was far from it.

'Funny thing: I don't recall inviting your assistance in this matter. And yet, who else but _you_ could possibly have thought it their place to interfere, hmm?'

She heaved a huge sigh and turned her back on me, reaching for her wine glass.

'And do you think this is some kind of result for me, eh? I have _three_ months in order to vacate my own property, all because some stupid bunch of Muggles, with their stupid rules and stupid regulations, have, in their inimitable fashion, completely mis-managed the situation!'

The silence didn't deter me, but I see now that it should have.

'What's the plan now, eh? I'll just consult my bottomless pit, shall I? Yes, simple: I'll go out and buy myself a new house. Why didn't I think of that before?' I scoffed loudly, blustering on blindly. 'In fact, why stop there? I'll use my apparently limitless source of capital to buy myself a house in every bloody county in the bloody land!'

I felt good. _It_ felt good. This was her comprehensively _told_, I thought. She couldn't argue. I could have gone on to rail at her for every ill that had ever befallen me, if she'd let me.

But she didn't.

'Finished?' she murmured glacially, head tipping back sharply as she drained her glass. 'Listen carefully,' she continued, in a low, unsteady voice, 'because I'm only going to say this once.' Spinning on the spot and glaring at me with such ferocity that I nearly flinched, she spat:

'Fuck. Off.'

And in a split second, she'd disappeared. The sound of the door slamming seemed to echo interminably. Indeed, I can still hear it clearly. And well, her instructions, I thought, were unequivocal enough. So when my head stopped ringing and my wits were recalled, I slunk off.

**11:40 **

I'm prepared to admit that I got it wrong. Any right to express my indignation I destroyed, I'm sure, by behaving in such a disagreeable manner. Yet, the fact remains, unless I fancy fighting the Muggles tooth and nail, in three months' time, the Police will turn up and evict me.

Ha. That'll be interesting.

Humph.

Suppose I'd better get out of bed.

What's the point?

**14:00 — Seven Sisters.**

Hmm...

Maybe… Perhaps it's all not so pointless, after all.

For some reason, I'm in Kent. For some reason I've Apparated down here to the chalk cliffs _she_ enjoyed so much. For some reason I'm retracing a path we once took and, for once, my thoughts seem dangerously clear.

Admittedly, it's an oddly lovely day. The breeze is warm in the sun and the clouds are conspicuous by their absence. Unfortunately, I fear I'm beginning to become susceptible to my surroundings, for I feel strangely invigorated. Despite the disaster of last night; despite every cowpat that seems to be chucked in my direction, I feel quietly… refreshed.

Cobwebs blown away… anger, perhaps, released… I only wish I still had my father's car. I could get in it right now and drive onwards as far as the roads will take me and not look back.

Maybe Granger's done me a favour, after all. The house is to go, eventually, whether I like it or not. So why hang around until the bitter end? What is there to keep me in Yorkshire? To keep me _here,_ anywhere, at all?

No need to worry about unfinished business with her now, either. That's almost certainly done and dusted. Good; I'm glad. She finished with me; I should have accepted that long before now. Because there's nothing to be read in her actions since. She enjoys a challenge; she enjoys siding with the underdog; she, perhaps, really is sorry for how things ended between us. But that's as far as it goes.

It's finished; _all_ finished.

And maybe, finally, I'm prepared to let it stay that way.

Dignity intact.

...For the most part.

**14:45**

Mind, still can't believe she actually told me to 'fuck off', though.

* * *

><p>AN: Very sorry for the long wait! Thanks very much for continuing with the story and for reviewing. It's why I have every intention of finishing it, even if it will take me longer than I would like. Thanks, again : )<p> 


	10. October

**The Diary of a Somebody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Wednesday 3****rd**** October**

**17:56 **

Horace's single malt has finally arrived.

Ah, bliss.

**Friday 5****th**** October**

**13:31 — Apothecary. Annoyed.**

Humph.

Was caught off-guard today. Well and truly caught unawares. Unready _and_ unprepared…

The incident in question occurred whilst I was dealing with an infestation of doxies at the back of the shop, in amongst all the mouldering old boxes I've yet to dispose of. Doxies are nasty bloody blighters. I'd hoped to blitz them all without haste — didn't want them getting into the apothecary proper, after all. But they proved worthy adversaries, mind, and I ended up blitzing a lot more besides. I was thus occupied when Jess's voice sounded through the door.

'Boss?'

I ignored him.

'Boss?'

I still ignored him.

'Someone here to see you, boss.'

Ditto.

'_Boss_? They say it's important.'

At this point, I lost track of a particularly massive doxy and ended up blasting a shower of sawdust through the air. 'I'm busy, Jess! Tell them I'll see them when I actually give a toss!'

It was probably my subsequent grumbling as I tried to brush my robes down and squint the dust from my eyes that masked the sound of the door opening and closing. There was no mistaking the voice — the female voice — that spoke, however.

'It won't take long,' she said.

Oh bloody buggering hell, I thought.

I spun round involuntarily. There she was — bedecked, as per usual, in her Wizengamot get-up. Her lips lifted in a tight smile as she weaved her way directly towards me. I must say, I felt a wave of foreboding at this action. Had she come to belatedly hex me? Her apparent need for proximity suggested it may even be a slap…

But no… She halted soon enough and simply produced a scroll of papers (and was I disappointed, eh… ?)

'Look, I apologise for interfering,' she proclaimed, and I must say, boldly eyeballing me as she did so. She put the papers down on a nearby crate and paused before speaking again. 'I'd advise you to co-operate with the Muggles, Severus. It's for the best.'

I did nothing. Honestly, I don't know where my voice had gone.

'The details are all here.' She nodded at the papers. 'If there's anything you, ah, well, you know… let me know, if you want.'

She went to take her leave then.

'Thanks,' I managed to articulate — genuinely grateful, I suppose, and, indeed, mildly repentant. I think she understood. In any case, she nodded an acknowledgement before leaving.

Ten minutes later, I was still standing there uselessly when Jess came in and said, 'Cup of tea, boss?'

'No—'

'You got yourself a young lady, B—'

'Just bugger off, will you?'

He went, and I was left alone — in every sense of the word — again.

(Yes; I'm really that maudlin).

**19:00**

Feel like shit after today. Why do I always feel like shit?

Keep thinking I should have said something else… something more to… Oh, it's no good. Not going to make any difference now.

**19:24**

Amongst the papers Granger left me is a letter from the East Riding council, offering me compensation for the loss of my home. The money will equate to 40% of the market value of the property.

Oh, wonderful.

I'll be rolling in it.

40% of the market value… I estimate the market value to be at nil, anyway. Bloody bastards.

I've half a mind to go marching down there and to bloody well show them…

Humph. On previous form, that kind of behaviour will get me precisely nowhere.

**23:45 — Pissed.**

Horace's single malt is… emptey… no… _empty... _Everything's going wrong_..._

I can't… I want to write… um… that I'm still in…. That I'm —

…

Bugger it.

**Sunday 7****th**** October**

Boring old day, yet again. Only point to note is that Minerva wants to meet for lunch sometime this week.

Great.

I can hardly contain my anticipation.

**Tuesday 9****th**** October**

**10:05**

Dear Lord.

My eyes must be deceiving me.

The most, frankly, astonishing thing has happened. This morning I received an Owl from the Department of Mysteries, and they appear to be requesting a meeting about the possibility of them… offering me my old job back…

It must be a joke, surely.

And yet, it seems official enough… parchment seems as cheap as I remember it…

Hah! I think they really do want me back.

I love it.

Shall I go? Oh, I'm definitely going. I could do with a laugh!

October the 15th is going to be a bright day indeed, I can feel it already.

**Friday 12****th**** October**

Oh Merlin's arse.

Meeting with Minerva was, as ever, a disaster. Why do I bother trying to be sociable? It only ever back-bloody-fires on me. Who should pass through the Leaky whilst we were awaiting the arrival of our dinner?

Yes. _Exactly_.

Minerva, of course, couldn't pretend she hadn't seen her. Neither could she limit herself to a polite acknowledgement. Oh no. She had to leap from her chair, all smiles at the bushy-haired know-it-all and the Potter spawn she had clutching onto her hand.

Granger managed to say 'Hello, Severus,' fairly equably, so, being the gentlemanly sort I am, I reciprocated.

But by then I was surplus to requirements. They fussed and flapped over the young James Potter, which, I might add, he enjoyed to no end (wonder where he gets that from…?), giving me, unfortunately, ample opportunity to study my erstwhile companion. Not something I've had chance to do in a long time.

Something has been bothering her, lately, I feel. I've absolutely no idea what, but it seems clear. Bloody hell. Hark at me, talking like I have an understanding of the machinations of her mind. Surely, if I were so perceptive, I would have seen her dumping me well before she finally did?

Still, it's become a novelty to look on her. And I suppose it was nice to see her in something other than those preposterous work robes she wears… Why do I always bang on about her Winzegamot robes? I fear I may have a strange fetish for them…

Anyway, when we were finally left alone, Minerva sat down and sucked in a breath. 'My, that was awkward, wasn't it?'

Quite the master of the understatement, she is.

'What did you expect, Minerva, hmm? Hugs? Laughter, maybe? _Song_?'

'Well, it's been months, now, Severus; time enough to forget all that nonsense, eh? You're both adults, after all.'

She doesn't know all the details, of course… And I won't tell her, so I elected to ignore her. She, however, blundered on.

'You could do with a few more friends, after all.'

Charming. Bloody charming. 'Minerva —'

'Oh, don't glare at me. The two of you obviously had _something_ in common, otherwise you'd never have started… fraternising. I fail to see why you can't let bygones be bygones. I thought you'd grown out of holding grudges—'

'Yes, _well_ _done_, Minerva. You've hit the nail on the head: it's all _my_ fault, yet again. When will I ever learn to feel anything other than pettiness and resentment, eh?'

The righteousness of others pisses me off to no end.

Well, she had the grace to look abashed, at least. 'I'm sorry, Severus; you're—'

'We might as well be strangers, now, anyway,' I muttered fiercely into my pint; discomfort, not doubt, compelling my self-justification.

It's true, though. How did relations between us deteriorate so quickly? _Why_ did they? She doesn't feel the same way. She doesn't care about me… in the way that I would like… That's the bottom line. I can resent her for it… but do I need to blame her for it? I can be bitter about it… who wouldn't be?

But, perhaps, I've lost more than I realise in doing so.

I have a feeling this may be the strapline to my whole existence thus far.

**17:45**

At least I have a meeting with the ministerial dim-wits to look forward to.

**Monday 15****th**** October**

**15:15 **

Things have taken an unexpected turn.

Went to the meeting at the Department of Mysteries and it is as I anticipated — they are sorely missing my particular skill and talent at recruiting sharp minds.

Of course Wilson is long gone, as Miss Moran told me some weeks ago.

I had intended to tell them exactly where to shove their job offer, but the position they're offering is not precisely the same as I previously held. They want to offer me a consultee role. It seems I would only be required at the Ministry intermittently.

Now… Only a fool would turn their nose up at a second income. And when you're a man faced with homelessness by the end of the year, foolishness is not really an option. I've decided to consider it, anyway.

Hmm… a private consultancy business seems to have sprung up around me quite unexpectedly. Perhaps things are finally looking up. If I agree to the post, I'll be far too busy to dwell on more… personal matters…

Merlin; I'll be Minister before long.

**Tuesday 16th October**

**14:56 — Work.**

If I take on extra responsibility, what of the apothecary? Jess would be able to manage on his own were I to be absent for a day or so. He seems reliable and trustworthy enough.

Takings for any day I'm away will be rigorously scrutinised, mind.

**Wednesday 17th October**

Why shouldn't I have two jobs, eh? I'll probably be condemning myself to the boredom I so reviled once upon a time, but...

When you have no social life to speak of, you might as well fill up your working one...

**17:00**

It's done. I've Owled my acceptance.

Hope enough time has passed for me not to seem desperate.

**Friday 19****th**** October**

Bumped into Weasley in the Leaky tonight. Haven't seen him for a while. I was at the bar (where else?), when he appeared at my side.

'All right, Snape, mate? How's it going?'

'How many times… I'm not your mate, Weasley.'

He shrugged. 'Guess what?' he said, oblivious to my derision. 'I'm playing in the match on Saturday! I'm back on the team!'

Oh glorious heavenly beings, what extraordinary news!

'Wonderful.'

'And Harry tells me you're back at the Ministry. Things are finally looking up, eh, Snape?' He downed a huge gulp of his beer and laughed, clapping me on the shoulder. 'Oh, yes, things are looking up, indeed.'

Then he was gone. I stared after him, wondering if he'd fallen foul of my more potent stock at the Apothecary. What an idiot. I give him five minutes back on the starting lineup for the Cannons.

And when did Potter find out about my new job? I've told no one and I don't start until next month.

Hmm.

**Monday 22****nd**** October**

Got a bit of a problem (when haven't I?)

Ginevra came into the apothecary, ostensibly to buy some supplies, but I've a feeling this was a secondary motive. I was engrossed a crossword and only managed a half-arsed greeting. When she approached me, I hoped she'd take what she'd come for and simply leave. No such bloody luck. As I wrapped up her purchases, and felt her eyes boring fiercely into me, I knew there was something she wanted to say.

And sure enough, a rush of outward breath was followed by an indignant appeal.

And, _gah_, made a right prick of myself

'Aren't you even going to enquire as to how Hermione is?' she asked, glaring.

I raised an eyebrow with measured indifference. 'Should I?' I questioned flippantly. I wanted to add a yawn, but felt that might be going a bit far.

Her mouth slackened slightly and she simply stared at me. Admittedly, I was a little thrown by the potency of her umbrage. It's over three months (!) since Granger binned me; it's not strange that she's not my immediate (outward) concern every time I come into contact with someone connected with her, is it? I may have said something to this effect and Ginevra's reaction was quite something to behold. Indeed, were it not for the counter between us, I fear she may have thrown out her fist and decked me.

'Selfish bastard,' she muttered with disgust. Her head shook disbelievingly. 'I thought… I thought you really cared about her, but it seems Ron was right.'

So saying, she turned and marched forcefully towards the door.

'Hang on,' I called out uncertainly, moving around the counter. 'You can't speak to me like that,' I hissed. 'Has something happened? Believe it or not, Mrs Potter, but I'm not actually psychic.'

She paused in the doorway and looked confused for a moment. 'What… You haven't heard about her parents, then?'

'Does it look like it?'

'They've split up — her mother's been having an affair…'

Well, _well_.

'And how, pray, was I supposed to know this?'

Her expression now looked faintly troubled. 'You met Ron in the Leaky the other night, didn't you?'

I nodded affirmatively.

'He, ah, said he told you what was going on, how upset Hermione has been, and that you… didn't seem to care.'

I have to admit, I was stunned. I still am vaguely stunned. Clearly, I'm losing my grip in my old age. My energies have been so focused on telling myself that I'm 'moving on' that I've completely missed Weasley double-crossing me. For that's what he's done, and it was written all over his sister's face too.

What snide comments has been dropping about me around Granger, eh?

He's picked his opportunity well. It's very clear-cut. The perfect chance to make himself indispensable whilst she's vulnerable, and then throwing in the odd remark about my apparent indifference for good measure, as well.

Nice one, Weasley. Ginger prick. _Wanker_.

'Listen, I think you should go and see her.'

I looked at Ginevra in some surprise. 'Why?'

A shadow passed over her face and she looked away. 'Look, I should go. It's none of my business, really. Good day to you.'

The door closed and I retreated behind the counter. I'm still confused. I've no idea what I should do.

_Should_ I do anything, at all? Have I not already decided to wash my hands of the whole business? So she's having difficulty with her parents… What's my involvement supposed to be — the man who's barely spoken to her in the last three months or so? And so Weasley, by all accounts, is still trying to worm his way back in… He's found an opening, and he's used it…What exactly can I do to stop that? Me — the man who she, let's not forget, binned because she wasn't really that interested.

For crying out loud, I've been raking over the same old shit for weeks now. What happens to her is no longer my business, and yes, I think I'd far rather it stay that way than anything else.

There.

Decisive and straightforward.

I like it.

If she decides she wants Weasley back then that's her prerogative, isn't it?

I can't make her change her mind or…

Well, I could… but there are moral and legal hurdles to wrestle with, so…

It's her choice.

I've always underestimated the value of choice…

Anyway, didn't she say she didn't want him?

But she's upset and Weasley's there to manipulate that… If I turn up there now, won't I be doing the same thing?

And if it's not Weasley, it'll be some other man, eventually, she'll get invo—

Oh _God_.

**Tuesday 23rd October**

**10:02 — Apothecary.**

What she does with herself is no longer anything to do with me.

**12:06 — Lunch. Leaky.**

What happens to her is none of my business.

**14:00 — East Anglia. Delivering potions.**

I'm washing my hands of it all. I'm moving on.

And now I shall endeavour to forget the whole sorry matter.

**Wednesday 24****th**** October**

Argh!

Why does nothing I ever do go right? _Why_?

Serves me right for being a maudlin old fool, I suppose. Serves me right for having the self-discipline of a child in a sweet-shop. Problem is, I haven't been able to get Potter's wife from my mind. Her _words,_ I hasten to add. Keep asking myself whether she was right — that I should present myself to Granger… Why would she suggest it, if she didn't think it would be welcomed?

Could always be delayed vengeance, I suppose, but I doubt it.

Anyway, after much (but clearly not enough) cogitating I ended up on the doorstep of Potter's abode. It was midday. It was midweek. Potter would be at work. Ginevra would, likely enough, be at home with the children.

So, little knowing my folly loomed large, I knocked the door.

Guess who answered?

Bloody Granger herself!

She flinched in surprise. 'Oh, hello… What are you doing here?'

'I was… I was looking for Ginevra.'

'Ginny?' A deep frown formed across her face. 'Harry and Ginny have gone away; I'm looking after the kids.'

I nodded, wishing an abyss would open up beneath me.

'I could take a, ah, message, I suppose…'

Fuck. Had to quickly think up a reason for being there. 'She, ah, had something on order at the Apothecary.'

'I'll pass it on to her, if you like?'

Oh God! How stupid was I going to look having to tell her that I'd forgotten to bring the package?

'Um…. It's…' I reached into my robe, hardly knowing what I was going to say. But I was saved from prevarication. Saved, but possibly condemned to eternal damnation, too, for Weasley, yes, _Weasley_, appeared in the hallway behind her. How gormless he always looks never fails to amaze me.

'Al's crying, Hermione, and I can't get him to stop. Can you sort him out? And George just Flooed; I said we'd meet him in Diagon Alley.'

The dawning realization I'd interrupted some little pseudo family outing left me vaguely sickened.

With an 'Excuse me, Severus,' and one parting look, Granger disappeared into the house and I was left with a single solitary Weasel in my sights. Resisting the urge to hex him, I decided I only wanted to get away from the place. Before I could do so, Weasley called to me.

His face had turned knowing and entirely self-satisfied. 'No, ah, hard feelings, eh, mate?' he murmured before closing the door.

No hard feelings?

It settles it. _He_ needs sorting out.

**Friday 26****th**** October**

**21:45 — Withernsea.**

Matters, if they can be deemed such, refuse to lie.

Ginevra has accosted me again. This time in Knockturn Alley of all places; and I have no explanation other than she must have followed me.

'We must stop meeting like this… Mrs Potter. You know how people like to talk.'

I don't think she was very happy that I was smirking as I spoke. Oh well.

'Listen,' she said briskly. 'It's my father's birthday next weekend — we're all going to the Leaky on the Saturday —'

'How lovely for —'

'What a coincidence it will be if you happen to be there, and let's face it, the amount you drink, it actually could hardly be considered a coincidence at all.'

Cheeky bint!

'There'll be lots of people around; perfect opportunity to talk to Hermione, all right?'

And with a 'I've got to go', she buggered off. Say what to Hermione? I wanted to shout after her. What the fuck is there to say? Congratulations for letting Weasley weasel his way back into favour like the slimy weasel he is? Congratulations for never failing to leave me feeling like a right prick every time I see you?

I'm sick of it. I'm certainly not going anywhere near the bloody Leaky on Saturday. I've got far better things to turn my attention to.

**Monday 29****th**** October**

Bugger.

Things aren't looking good, because, as it stands, I'm currently locked up in a cell beneath the Wizengamot. And, incidentally, they haven't changed a jot.

The charge? An Auror caught Weasley and me dueling in the middle of Diagon Alley.

'Bugger' pretty much sums it all up, I think.

And I'm terrified — terrified because they took my diary from me when my possessions were confiscated. Forget having my wand taken — I'll die if the spells on my diary fail. I'm currently recording these thoughts via magical means. It's helping to take my mind off visions of pages of my diary being sent around the Ministry like some official piece of memoranda.

Oh God.

How long will I be stuck here? Not as if Weasley was hurt… a great deal, anyway.

**16:41**

Been stuck here for three hours now.

**17:09**

It all started when he came into the Apothecary this afternoon, chest puffed out, clad in Cannons garb, and with a face even a vicar would want to punch. If that was bad enough, he put on the counter a selection of cosmetically enhancing potions (that I only stock to be competitive, mind you) and grinned widely. 'All right, mate?'

'Weasley,' I ground out.

And then he dropped the bomb.

'Hermione and I are off out tonight. Thought perhaps you should know…'

I stared at him, resolving there and then that by hook or by crook, he'd be going nowhere with anyone.

He handed over some money and shrugged his shoulders at my look. 'Look, mate,' he said lifting his hands helplessly. 'All's fair, you know?'

I still stared.

'Hermione and me… You won't be too pissed off if we get back together, will you? I'd hate to think we'd upset you.' He proceeded to rest his forearms on the counter and leant forward, shaking his head in thought. 'She was telling me, the other day, about some Muggle bloke called, um, Darmin, I think, yes, Darmin, and his theory about… Oh what did she call it… ? She went on about it for an age… Oh, survival of the fittest!' He shrugged his shoulders again. 'That's me and you, Snape, you know? It's just nature, in the end; and we can't argue with that, eh?'

Smiling sympathetically, he took his purchases and left.

Needless to say, I was gobsmacked. But if there is anybody in this world who imagines _I_ could let Ronald Weasley, full-time fuckwit extraordinaire, use, of all things, Charles Darwin's theory of natural selection as a justification for his winning Granger back, then they are misguided fools.

It simply could not be borne.

It would be a fair assessment of the situation to say I flew blindly around the counter and yanked the door off its hinges. And it would be quite apt to say a sudden chill of serenity seemed to swathe me as I clocked him dithering outside Madame Malkin's. I stepped forward to afford myself better aim, removed my wand and pointed it at him. Of course, I wouldn't strike him in the back, however.

Oh no.

'Weasley!' I called loudly, entirely ignoring the looks of others. 'It would appear you've forgotten something.'

He turned, and what, initially, was a confused frown melted beautifully into a look of complete surprise.

I hexed him, naturally, and when he'd crumpled uselessly to the floor, I went to stand over him. 'Spend five galleons today and you get a free hex, see?'

'Bastard!' he spat breathlessly, hurriedly scrambling for his wand.

Suppose I should have ended it there. Suppose I could have prevented him from reaching his wand. Suppose I could have walked away. I could have done many things, but what I did do was simply stand back and allow him to collect himself. Because, do you know what? I was up for it. I was more than up for it. I was prepared to show him a practical demonstration of survival of the fucking fittest, and more besides.

So we duelled. I'm not going to try and capture it with words because I'm not sure I could adequately express how delicious it was. Conditions, I grant, weren't ideal. A jeering crowd formed. Some ladies were panicking loudly. Flourish and Blott's shopfront was caught in the crossfire. And when we were tackled to the floor by a pair of Aurors, I did my shoulder in against the cobbles.

Bloody killing me it is, too.

Still, who won the duel?

Well, let's just say the Aurors, when they disarmed me, took _two_ wands.

Ha.

**17:56**

How much bloody longer? Dying for a pint.

**21:25 — Home. Finally.**

Well, I'm out. I'm free. I'm liberated.

Yet... sort of wish I was still locked up. I wouldn't be able to do half the idotic things I do if I were incarcerated.

Anyway,the story of release runs thus. I was lying down on the bench that ran the full width of the cell, dozing with boredom, when I heard the door open and close. I turned my head sharply, believing that I was to be confronted by an Auror, but… alas, to my eternal misfortune, a sign of a rather different form of captivity stood before me.

And she didn't look pleased.

For a split second, I thought I might have been dreaming. But as I righted myself, I knew I couldn't have imagined the jabbing pain in my shoulder. Nor the ripple of embarrassment that she should witness my predicament. And I'm quite sure my imagination could have come up with a far more enjoyable greeting than her looming over me and hissing 'What the _hell_ has been going on?'

Her hands were on her hips and she had her stupid Wizengamot hat on, for crying out loud, and those _awful bloody robes_…

All right. _All right_. I keep on mentioning those bloody robes of hers — I can't help it. I suppose I've avoided dwelling on why they cause me such chagrin because it's… a bit unseemly. But yes, I see them and immediately wish I could rid her of them. There, I've said it.

…

I should cross it out, by right…

I digress.

'I thought Harry had made a mistake when he told me both you and Ron were currently being held for hexing the crap out of each other, for causing a public disturbance, and oh yes, for causing damage to Flourish and Blotts!'

'Calm down; no _books_ were damaged.'

Oh dear. Her expression became thunderous. Evidently, the time for facetiousness was long gone.

'This, I might add, is a lot more than can be said for Ron. You gave him a real pasting, Severus.'

I think whatever was left of my cranky old heart shrivelled up and died then. Clearly, Weasley was her priority, and perhaps, always would be. Ginevra, I felt, had it wrong. _I_ had it wrong.

'Why did you do it?'

I liked how convinced she was that it was me who started it.

'What does it matter? Go and tend to Weasley.'

I lay back down, closed my eyes and let the pointlessness of my actions wash over me. When there was only silence, I spoke again grumpily. 'Haven't you got some miscreant that needs defending in the courtroom?'

There was a soft thump and then the sound of her voice, somewhere near my ear. 'Yes,' she murmured with a hint of irony.

My eyes flew open and I looked to see she was kneeling on the floor, watching me. Unsettled, I returned to an upright position and wished she would leave. 'I don't require your assistance,' I pointed out as indifferently as I could.

'You want to stay in here all night, then, do you?'

'It's as good a place as any. No chance of this place falling into the sea, after all.'

I stole a quick glance at her. She was looking at her hands, but I thought a detected the sign of a smile on her face. For a good few minutes there was only silence between us, and oddly enough, I thought it the calmest interlude I've experienced in a long time. I wouldn't care how long I spent locked up if she was there too.

(Just when I think I've reached the limit of wretchedness, I always manage to plumb new depths.)

'I thought you and Ron were big pals these days?'

I glared at her harshly. 'You wash your mouth out, my girl! Pals, indeed; the very thought…'

She laughed, while I lamented how easy it is for us to fall back into a familiar camaraderie.

'He's an idiot,' she said, after a moment. 'But that doesn't excuse you attacking him.'

I said nothing. I barely heard her after the word 'idiot'. My senses were further impaired when she seated herself beside me. And when she took my hand and healed the scrapes across my knuckles with her wand, I felt like I might be on my last legs.

She appeared oblivious to my discomfort. She released me and then sprang to her feet. 'They won't keep you in overnight. Ron has —'

'Oh, I don't want any favours from him. I'd rather a spell in Azkaban than be beholden to him,' I spat fiercely.

'It's got nothing to do with Ron, all right? And I think it best if you stay away from each other in future.'

I stared at my hands. So I was to be beholden to her. She was to pull a few strings, was she? I felt rather hollow about it all, really. It must have been so bloody obvious that the only reason we duelled was because of her. Why can't it be the other way around? Why can't there be women brawling in the streets over me? Why am I always the one driven out of my mind by jealousy, eh? Why?

If she would just tell me to leave her alone. If she would just tell me that she never wants to see my face ever again, then I might be able to manage.

I thought she was going to leave, and I waited for the sound of it, but she remained still. I didn't dare look up to see what transfixed her so. Perhaps she was waiting for some sort of apology or thank you, and I debated internally what words I had in my arsenal that wouldn't sound too grudging or resentful.

We'll simply say it was a struggle.

I was reprieved, however. She said my name, and in such a quietly earnest way that I almost flinched. I lifted my head and she was standing there, hat now in hand, and looking for all the world like a little lost sheep.

'Um, would it be… Could we perhaps—'

Whatever she was about to say was lost as the door flung open and an Auror loomed in the doorway expectantly. Hermione shoved her hat back on her head, squared her shoulders, and marched out.

It came to pass that an hour or so later, I was back in Yorkshire.

Alone.

Yay.

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks for your patience : )<p> 


	11. November

**The Diary of a Somebody**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

* * *

><p><strong>Thursday 1<strong>**st**** November**

**19:15** **— Home. Pissed Off.**

That's it. I think I need help — some serious mental assistance. Or, at the very least, I need someone to slap a bit of sense into me.

Because I —

No, I'm not going to write about it. I refuse. Surely I have far more important, discerning observations and thoughts about the world to transcribe for posterity? Exactly. No more of this sentimental old twaddle.

No. More.

**19:25**

Well… it's raining outside.

Hmm…

Being insightful is hard.

**19:45**

Fuck it. I must write about it, simply because I'm a self-pitying, self-indulgent, annoying old fart.

I'm thinking about her more than ever. There. No point denying it. Time has improved _nothing_, and distance has done _nothing_ but the proverbial. It's just getting worse.

For crying out loud, I can still feel the tingle when she touched my hand in that cell…

Oh God, that cell. Bet she thinks I'm a nutcase.

And writing such nonsense makes me feel like shit. She makes me feel like shit. Everything makes me feel like shit. Humph. I'm going out for a pint. At least booze gives me a bit of pleasure _before_ leaving me feeling like bloody shit.

**22:09**

I really don't have any bloody luck, do I?

What does a man have to do to have peace and quiet while he wallows in a pint or five? Eh? Because I'd barely settled into my session when a voice sounded over my shoulder that was instantly recognisable. It was her, of all people! She must be stalking me. Must be. Can't be any other explanation.

'I thought I might find you here,' she said, seating herself on a stool beside me. 'You'll have a pint glass here with your name on it, before long.'

I shifted uncomfortably and grimaced at her. Why does she always have to point out my deficiencies? Does she think I have a drink problem?

Her unexpected arrival rather prevented any witty retort I might have made under better circumstances. She requested a glass of wine from the barman and then folded her arms atop the bar.

I refused to look at her. I resented her presence when she was so uppermost in my thoughts. I worried that I might say or do something to compromise myself. Wouldn't be the first time, after all.

'Can I help you?' I enquired bluntly, staring straight ahead, and tone suggesting she should either explain herself or simply bugger off.

Her reply was a little while in coming.

'I just thought… I mean, I fully realise I'm probably the last person you want to spend any time with, but… ' Her voice lowered so I could hardly make her out. 'Well, I remembered your father died a year ago today and…' She shrugged her shoulders self-consciously.

It sounds melodramatic, but I was completely stunned; completely and utterly taken aback.

'Has it really been a year?' I heard myself murmur.

I never thought about it. It had never entered my head. But it had entered hers, and I didn't know whether to be grateful, humbled, resentful or indifferent. The usual dilemma for me, it seems, and so I chose the usual solution:

I swigged on my pint.

Bet she thinks I'm as unfeeling as a lump of granite. Should I have remembered the anniversary of my father's death? Should I think about him more often than I do (which is hardly ever)?

I swigged on my pint, again.

She sighed loudly. 'Sorry; I shouldn't have brought it up, or come here, even.'

I said nothing, too busy trying to fathom where the past twelve months have gone. This time last year she was giving me driving lessons. Bloody hell. _Now_ look at us!

'He was a bastard, Granger; thought I told you this already?'

'Once or twice.'

'And speaking of bastards; how's Weasley?'

I could have quite easily kicked myself all the way to Yorkshire and back for uttering _his_ name. And her response did nothing to comfort me. She huffed quietly and said:

'Fine… He's walking again now.'

Oops. Did I hex him that hard?

'I'd rather not talk about him, really,' she continued.

Oh. It's like that is it? Interesting.

'Very well,' I muttered, draining my glass, debating whether I should depart. It seemed the sensible thing to do. 'Excuse me…'

'Wait,' she said hurriedly. 'Look, you should know, there's nothing going on between Ron and me, and there never—'

Unbidden, I felt a rush of embarrassment. Which is ridiculous, because, really, hexing Weasley in the middle of Diagon Alley and getting arrested for it surely betrayed my interest in the matter? Regardless, I feigned complete indifference this time.

'I really think it's none of my business, don't you? Good night.'

And so I went. I _actually_ went (why? _Why_ did I do it?) Any triumph I felt at her declaration was rather more secondary to the generally shitty frame of mind I've been cultivating lately, and which never fails flowers brightly whenever she's in my vicinity.

Nothing going on between her and Weasley… So, what? What difference does that make to me, really, eh?

If it isn't him, it'll be someone else, someday.

**23:40 — Bed.**

How the fuck I'm supposed to sleep tonight I'll never know.

**Saturday 3****rd**** November**

**17:31 — Apothecary.**

It's Arthur Weasley's party tonight and I'm not going to be there. I don't care what Ginevra says. Granger finished with _me_. I'm going to need a bit more than a comment from Potter's wife to put myself on the line. Desperate has never been a good look on me.

Must stay strong. I must move on. I _need_ to move on. Therefore, it's right and proper I should stay away.

I should endeavour to move on — both literally and figuratively, I suppose. Forget Granger, and next month I'm supposed to be leaving this house to mercy of the local authority. I still don't know what I'm going to do or where I'm going to go, but perhaps it's a good thing. Perhaps there's a reason things are coming together in this way at this particular time.

Hah. What a load of tosh!

I need a drink.

**Monday 5****th**** November**

**10:05 — Apothecary. **

Going to the Ministry tomorrow. Could do with putting my mind to something constructive for a change.

I've set up a number of hidden spells around the place to ensure Jess doesn't rob me and/or cause devastation. Think I'll be all right, though. In fact, it'll be nice to get out of this dump for a few hours. Think my eyes are starting to go, working in this gloom day in day out.

I happened to mention this to Minerva, the other day, when she said she thought I was squinting a bit too much whilst reading the menu in the Three Broomsticks. She agreed that it was possible, before suggesting it could also be down to _age_.

'Next', she said sagely, 'your hair will start to thin and your joints will start to ache'.

Lovely.

Is it any wonder my self-esteem is non-existent?

**Tuesday 6****th**** November**

**15:34 — Ministry (Have own office — bigger than a pokey box, too).**

Merlin.

Bloody… I'm back in the Ministry for _five_ minutes and Potter's cornered me already! Ended up having to sit with him in the canteen, because he brought his pie and chips over and parked himself without so much as a by-your-leave.

He beamed. 'This is like old times, Snape!'

The Lord have mercy upon me.

'I've a bone to pick with you, Potter, actually.'

'Well, I've got one to pick with you, as well.'

Hmm.

'Oh?'

He leant forward — a bit too close for my liking, I must say. _Creep_.

'Where on earth were you Saturday?' he hissed. 'You missed a perfect opportunity—'

'Er, hang on,' I interrupted loudly, suddenly rather pissed off. 'What do you mean, "Where were you Saturday?" And a missed perfect opportunity for _what_?'

His face clouded darkly. 'What do you think—?'

'Why the fuck should _I_ bother? _She_ finished it,' I spat in an undertone. 'And for future reference, Potter, if you keep sticking your nose into my business, I'll slice and dice it before feeding it to the pigeons, all right?

He blanched, and rightly so, in my opinion.

'Cut her some slack— ' He broke off at my thunderous expression and tried a different tack. 'I think she feels you're no longer interested—'

'Well, guess what, Potter, maybe she's right!'

And with that, I stormed off.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. Why did I say that, when it's patently not true?

But I'm confused. Does Potter actually desire us to resume relations? Forget Potter, does Granger desire it as well?

Bugger it. I refuse to consider anything that hasn't come from Granger herself. I don't trust Potter as far as I can throw him. Weasley was probably hiding under a table somewhere in the canteen ready to laugh his head off at my expense.

Pair of wankers.

**21:24**

For God's sake!

I've entirely forgot to mention my working day. This is terrible. Have I only got one thing on the brain? I've become precisely the person I've always despised:

A single-minded dunderhead.

This should have been my immediate focus, because Potter interlude aside, it was a good day.

Yes, a _good_ day.

(I had to check my phraseology of the above, so unused I am to forming such a thought).

I daren't write too much because, actually, I'm not allowed to — it's too sensitive.

Oh yes. Severus Snape, man of mystery, has finally returned.

**Saturday 10****th**** November**

**18:59 — Yorkshire.**

Things are not going well — Granger keeps popping up everywhere these days! It's starting to do my head in!

It was a matter of pure happenstance that I looked through the window to see her standing in my back garden, staring out over the North Sea, as calm as you like. Cheeky bint.

I was halfway to the door when it flashed through my mind that it would probably do me better to pretend I was out… It really would have been the best option all round, but, alas, I couldn't resist the temptation… Temptation of what, I'm not sure I want to speculate, but there we go. I'm a weak, increasingly decrepit, self-indulgent old fart, it would seem.

Oh well. Even men of mystery can't have everything.

Besides, I bloody well wanted to know why she was standing in my bloody garden as if she bloody owned the place!

So I went to join her. 'Are you lost?' I asked by way of sarcastic greeting.

She turned and smiled into the woolly scarf wrapped around her neck. 'No, not quite. Paperwork,' she admitted, nodding at the house behind me.

Oh. I huffed loudly, wishing I'd hidden after all.

'You must co-operate with the Muggles, Severus; it's for the best.'

'Is it?' I snarled tightly.

'It's understandable you've become attached to the place…'

I snorted, but her look of scepticism told me she really believed her words. I looked at the old stone façade, the splintered paint on the window-frames, and the tiles that had seen better days. I looked at the unkempt garden and the crumbling cliff edge and thought, regardless of my feelings for the place, that there could not be a better metaphor for my existence than this. And perhaps, in this sense, I am attached to the house. I've always enjoyed a touch of subtle melodrama, after all.

And I mean _subtle,_ mind.

I took the so-called paperwork from her, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it into the air. We watched it get carried on the wind over the cliff and into the swirling depths of the sea below.

'Oh dear,' I said sadly. 'How clumsy of me.'

She chewed her lip. 'I thought you'd do that,' she replied briskly, rummaging in her bag. 'And so here you are.' She marched to the door, opened it, and threw a scroll inside the house. 'I've charmed it against fire, hexes, anything you want to throw at it, really.'

Oh goody.

'Your pragmatism will get you into trouble one day, Granger,' I grumbled darkly.

To my surprise, her expression took on a discomfited edge, for a few moments, before she ploughed on with her cause.

'You can't deny they haven't got a point. Who knows how many more winters this place can survive?' She shrugged her shoulders questioningly.

'I _know_ that it will not be this year, nor the next—'

'I know you're used to living life on the edge, Severus, but let's face it, this is taking it all a bit too literally. This place could kill someone.'

I hate it when she preaches. She's forgotten something rather important, mind: where the hell am I supposed to go? With any luck, I'll be able to buy a tent to house myself with the few pence I'll get.

'Don't you think it's about time to… ah, well…' she began, trailing off with a look of vague consternation.

'To _move_ _on_?' I pressed, somewhat masochistically.

'I suppose.'

So, then. Potter was wrong, as I thought. There we have it. I've been told to move on. It's sorted. Had it straight from the horse's mouth. Fine by me. She can help by never showing her face around here again.

Don't have the guts to tell her that, though.

Humph.

'You're back at the Ministry, I hear. What of the Apothecary?'

'It's only one day — Jess can manage.'

'Ah, I'm glad you can rely on her.'

I blinked. She's still labouring under the impression Jess is a she? So, she's not even been interested enough to glance in through the bloody window and see who this female assistant is? Fabulous. She doesn't give a shit.

I started towards the house.

'Ah, by the way,' she called hurriedly, 'now that I'm here, did I, ah, happen to leave a scarf here at some point? '

Um.

'It was an old thing — my grandmother gave it to me.'

I straightened my cuffs. 'I can't say I've noticed it, no…'

Oops. Best not tell her there's a seagull out there somewhere wearing it.

**18:45**

Move on. Hmm.

That is precisely what I failed to do all those years ago. I simply cannot make the same mistake twice. It cannot be countenanced. This time next year, Hermione Granger will simply be someone I used to know. This time next year, a week, a month, five months will pass and I shall not turn a single solitary thought to her.

This time next year…

**Monday 12****th**** November**

How does one move on, I wonder? On previous form, I must wait twenty years and held defeat a Dark wizard in order to achieve it.

Shall I revert to square one — should I find myself another woman? Where can I meet a woman? Do I even want another one? Not really bothered… but seems the best way to Move On. Is there a potion for moving on? Perhaps I should devise one — bet I'd make a fortune.

Can't be arsed, though. Need speedy solution.

Should I try meeting a woman in the pub again?

I think the answer to that is painfully clear.

**Thursday 15****th**** November**

**12:02 — Work. Diagon Alley**

Even Jess is talking to me about Granger now. I'd gone out to buy myself the biggest bacon roll I could find (too many snifters last night), and when I returned, Jess shuffled over with an almost manic looking, smug expression on his face.

'I had a conversation with your young lady just now.'

'My what?' I snapped, barely listening to him.

'How on earth did _you_ ever manage to gain her affections?'

_Now_ I listened. I glared at him, mildly insulted. I say mildly because, deep down, I wonder the same thing too. There was a small twinkle in his eye which deterred the swell of irritation I felt brewing.

'Clearly, I didn't gain them for very long,' I muttered, not quite hiding the resentment in my tone.

'She speaks of you fondly.'

'What did she want?' I asked, pointedly not rising to the bait. And what a pointless, inane comment it was. People talk of bloody butterbeer _fondly._ Idiot.

'She didn't say.'

Oh. Well aren't I glad I didn't miss this conversation for all the sparkling facets of information I haven't gleaned.

'Funny thing, she did say she'd expected me to be female. I thought you'd have—'

'Not my fault you've got a woman's name, is it?' I snapped, retreating into the back of the shop. Great, now she'll wonder why I never corrected her.

I expect she turned up here wanting to talk about my intentions with regard to the Muggles, again. Well, she'll just have to wait. I haven't decided what I'm going to do.

I'm talking like I have a choice, but I think I may be stuffed.

**Saturday 17****th**** November**

Have received an invite today from Minerva. It's her usual request that I spend Christmas at Hogwarts, accompanied by the details of the big party she's throwing to celebrate the anniversary of the school's founding. Doesn't she realise it's only bloody November? I don't want to think about bloody Christmas until it's staring me in the ruddy face.

And do you know what?

This time, I'm going to say no and I'm actually going to mean it.

I can't think of anything better this year than spending Christmas alone and insensible.

Can't wait. Shall Owl my regrets to Minerva forthwith.

_Dear Minerva,_

_I must regretfully decline. I'd rather come down with a nasty bout of gout than attend your party._

_Severus_

I estimate in a few short hours I'll receive the usual scathing reply telling me to grow up and/or respect my elders, and do as I'm told.

**18:15**

As anticipated, Minerva's owl has arrived. I'm almost looking forward to seeing how creative she's been this year.

**18:20**

Oh for fuck's sake!

All she replied was:

_Hermione will be there._

I'm _not_ going.

**Tuesday 20****th**** November**

**11:15 — Department of Mysteries.**

Lucinda is still working within the Department of Mysteries. Luckily, she's moved up to personal assistant so I don't have much to do with her.

I say luckily… Am I seriously narcissistic enough to imagine she still holds a torch for me? No, I can't be, can I?

Think I'll look out for her at lunch and speak to her, to prove that I'm not.

**14:10**

Spoke to Lucinda. She's getting married next year. Definitely no torch burning there. Humph.

Hmm. It's a good job I never thought to ask Granger to marry me. How embarrassing would that have been, eh?

I'd never have survived it.

In other news, I may be man of mystery, but I'm still not fully au fait with the Unspeakables. Still, have been given cover story for my work here. Anyone asks, I'm employed there for 'research' purposes.

Not very mysterious, I grant you.

And I've probably just breached protocol in writing this, but do I care?

Oh no.

**Friday 23****rd**** November**

**20:06 — Leaky.**

I've received more letters from the council about my house today. I'm going to have to sort it out. I've left it rather late — I now only have four weeks or so to arrange an alternative abode. But I'll let them have the blasted thing, I can't see any other way without creating a large headache. I like to think I can win one over on them, but the truth is I simply can't be arsed.

And I suppose I can see the logic. And well, suppose it'll save me having to dispose of it. Part of the garden disappeared the other day after a few days heavy rain. Pity I hadn't been standing there at the time, eh?

Trouble is, I've a mountain of pesky forms to fill in and be counter-signed by my so-called solicitor.

This means I'm going to have to seek her out.

Will be eminent disaster.

**Saturday 24****th**** November**

**20:14 — Home.**

Jesus.

So fucking much for Moving On.

I went to see my so-called solicitor this afternoon and, as a result, I'm now in a state of mild anxiety. I don't know what to do. Why does she always do this to me? I honestly think I'd be better off without her than have to have her unsettle me all the time.

I ventured to her house a couple of hours ago and half wish I hadn't. When I arrived, I looked to the windows and could see from the light filtering through the drawn curtains that she was probably inside. I hardly knew whether to be pleased or disappointed. Still, as I approached the front door, I think I became rather more intrigued than anything else, for I could hear the strains of music.

As I poised my fist to knock the door, I was the victim of some dreadful vision that I might find her entertaining someone (male) within. However, it didn't sound to me the kind of music one might describe 'romantic' (not that my ear is particularly well-trained in that area) and I forced my knuckles to rap sharply.

In my defence, I'll say that I stood there and knocked for a good five minutes or so to no avail. Deciding it more likely she simply couldn't hear the door over the din she'd created, rather than simply ignoring any visitors, and feeling I hadn't come all this way to leave empty-handed, I tried the handle. Trepidation replaced irritation when it gave way beneath me. I opened the door and the music was far louder inside, so much that I winced at the sound of it.

I don't know what music it was, or who was responsible for it, but I do know that it was shit.

Standing in the passage, and before an impulse to flee could overcome me, I opened the door to her living room and, indeed, the source of the noise.

And _Jesus_; what a sight.

She stood in the middle of the room, her back to me, with a rather large wine glass clutched in one hand, and _swaying_ in complete mismatched rhythm to the music.

I stared.

And, Merlin, when she started _singing_… I say singing, but I mean this in the loosest possible way.

I had to put a stop to it right there; I could hardly believe this was my cool, pragmatic, sensible Miss Granger.

I cleared my throat loudly and said: 'Er, do you take requests?'

She let out a rather impressive screech of shock and jumped a foot into the air, entirely losing the contents of her glass. When she turned around, the front view was no more encouraging than the rear. Her robes (_those_ robes) were askew. Her hair, well, let us say it was no advertisement for tidiness, and her face was flushed an alarming shade of red.

To my infinite chagrin, I thought she looked lovely.

Anyway, she half-gasped my name, whilst scampering over to the contraption spouting the awful racket in order to turn it off.

'What… What are you… ?' she muttered, slightly breathless it seemed with drink and embarrassment. Indeed, her hands set out on a rather fruitless journey to right her appearance.

For my own part, I took a long look around the room before alighting on her again. 'Granger,' I said, with a carefully poised hint of disappointment. 'It's _six_ o'clock in the evening; I thought I nurtured your drinking habits better than this.'

Her embarrassment seemed acute enough that my jibe didn't appear to register. In hindsight, it's something I should probably be grateful for.

'What do you want?' she asked with considerable consternation, lowering herself delicately into a chair. She would not look at me directly.

'I need to discuss my pending homelessness. Since you commissioned yourself as my solicitor, and I find myself in need of instruction… However, as I see you're otherwise, ah, engaged, I could return at a later date. 'She squirmed for a moment. I have to admit, bastard that I am, I enjoyed making her uncomfortable.

Her hand was supporting her forehead and she peered meekly at me through her fingers. 'You're co-operating, then?'

I nodded tightly.

'Good.' She sighed. 'But can it wait until tomorrow? As you can see, I'm hardly in the best frame of mind right now.'

Her eyes closed and I watched her — concerned, I suppose.

'Why are you drinking in the afternoon?' I asked plainly, feeling I could hardly leave without addressing the elephant in the room.

She let out a little tired laugh. 'Does it really need explaining to you? Didn't you once tell me you'd "written the book on getting pissed"?'

'It's highly unlikely I would have uttered something so uncouth.'

She snorted, and quite derogatorily, too, I thought. When she finally raised her head, there was a small glimmer of humour apparent in her eyes.

'Sit, Severus, and have a drink with me.'

This threw me a bit.

Nevertheless, she got to her feet, a tad precariously, and tottered to the wine bottle standing half-empty on the sideboard. Despite feeling it was a bad idea, I sat. I've come this far in life on bad decisions, one more wasn't going to hurt. That's my philosophy, anyway.

'You know what it's like,' she continued, nodding to the glasses in her hands. 'Sometimes you just need to… blow away the cobwebs.'

I blinked. I could only wonder what cobwebs she had to blow away. Did_ I_ constitute a cobweb?

She threw herself heavily back into her chair and closed her eyes. 'How is it people manage to cock-up life so spectacularly, eh?'

A pointed barb, to be sure.

'My mother's cocked up. Ron's cocked up. _I've_ cocked up…' She trailed off into silence and sighed.

I was unmoved. 'You know, I think I prefer it when you're dancing…'

A little laugh escaped her. 'You won't tell anyone about that, will you?'

'Depends.'

'On what?'

'I haven't decided yet.'

There was a short silence before she lapsed into philosophical musing once more.

'Anything good…' she said. 'Anything good in their lives, people always seem to bugger up eventually.'

'What, pray, have _you_ buggered up?' I asked her shortly. I had to wonder. After all, she's young, intelligent, has the makings of a long and illustrious career ahead of her… 'One failed marriage to a Weasley is nothing to lament.' I rose to my feet and stalked to the sideboard. 'And why you persist in drinking this piss-awful vinegar, I'll never know.' I snatched up a bottle of Scotch and poured out a measure, fully realising the bottle was a relic of a time when I'd often had occasion to be drinking in her living room. She, after all, wasn't a whisky drinker, just a mere pretender.

I gulped it down in one and decided I should retreat before I made a fool of myself for the umpteen millionth time in her presence. When I turned round, however, the expression on her face arrested me.

'I wasn't thinking of my marriage, Severus, I was...' She stood and went to fuss unnecessarily with a stack of books.

'What?' I heard myself prompt.

'It doesn't matter.' There was a long pause. 'Actually, perhaps it does… Maybe. Well, I was thinking about us. There; I've said it.'

At the risk of sounding repetitive, I simply stared at her.

'I'm… I don't think I ever really apologised for being such a bitch, did I?' Her shoulders drooped. 'Well, I am sorry, for what it's worth.'

'You did say sorry,' I replied evenly. 'But… you never really explained—'

I cut myself off, not sure I wanted to rake it all over. So I never really understood why she chucked me — what's the point in churning it over now, months down the line? I'm Moving On, aren't I? Haven't I decided this?

I spun on my heel and made for the door. Before I could reach it, she seemed to lurch across the room and grabbed my sleeve.

'Wait, let me say it… I _am_ sorry,' she said solemnly. 'I underestimated many things… It was_ I_ who had the — Well, I buggered it up…'

Her fingers released my sleeve and her eyes turned away. I've never wished her ill after what happened — never really felt any true antipathy towards her. But I think right then was the first time I felt no resentment towards her for what happened. At that moment she looked every inch her young years. Perhaps the age difference was too great, in the end. And it struck me that she, neither of us, actually, are know-it-alls, however much we might pretend otherwise.

So it had gone wrong. Things always do.

'My best friend made a fool of me... My mother left my father. I didn't have any faith left in relationships, Severus, and you deserved better. That much, I do know.'

Right then, I honestly didn't know what to say. She was close enough that I could have touched her — made some sort of gesture. It might even have been welcome. But no; instead, I bade her goodnight and left.

I really am a useless piece of crap.

**21:14**

This evening's going from bad to worse.

In a fit of maudlin self-pity, I've been re-reading certain entries in volume one of my ramblings. This part stood out — she once said to me:

'If this goes anywhere, I don't want you, six months down the line, to have some typically male identity crisis over the fact you're seeing a younger woman and then bugger off to go and nurse some inferiority complex—'

I think she was trying to tell me earlier that it was the other way around. _She_ had the crisis of confidence, not me.

Oh God, _the irony_. I'd fall about laughing if I had enough booze inside me.

**21:45**

Hmm.

Who knew what useful tools my diaries would prove to be?

Re-reading them is an interesting experience. Time, I suppose, has allowed me to view them a little more objectively. There are certain things I wrote during my association with Granger which, in hindsight, sound rather loud alarm bells.

Take her parents, for instance. She accused me once of not being interested, and it seems I'd already identified that as being a problem. 'I prefer to pretend they don't exist' I wrote.

What a first class prick.

'We never seem to talk about our… About what's going on…'

So why the bloody hell didn't I listen to my own advice? Instead, I wrote it all down in this bloody stupid diary and said nothing to her face. All right, the thought of uttering such sentiment aloud does make me quail inside, but… I suppose I could have tried, at the very least. I could have made an effort. I think I thought, for some inexplicable reason, that she would excuse my reticence — that I could get away with it on the basis that I'm… _me_.

I must either be very arrogant or very naïve.

Well, it's too late to try now… isn't it?

… Is it?

Perhaps if I made some concerted effort to… Well, to what end, I'm not entirely sure, but… I…

Yes, I still love her… There. That one only took me ten minutes to write, rather than the usual twenty. Progress, perhaps?

Was Potter right? Could I, somehow, persuade her that we might try again? Do I have it in me to try?

Fuck knows.

A drink will help me decide.

**23:20 — Bed. Triumphant.**

It's done.

There we are, Ogden's fixed it for me.

Can barely make out my writing — vision's swimming a bit — but I must write this down. Must record this vow in case I forget it in the morning. It must be set in stone.

Because I'm going to tell her.

How, I don't know, and when, I don't know, either. Hopefully Old Ogden will decide that for me, too.

Yes, Severus Snape, forty-six year old former Death Eater, former spy, former civil servant of… Ah, can't remember how it goes…

Yes, Severus Snape, man of mystery and apothecary extraordinaire, is finally going to show the world how it's done.

Ha!

* * *

><p>AN: It's up to you what music Hermione was dancing to. For my part, it was 'Wishing' by A Flock of Seagulls, but that's only because I'm going through an 80s phase.<p>

Thanks once again for your patience, much appreciated : )


	12. December

AN: Well... There isn't much I can say to excuse how long it's been since I last uploaded. Furthermore, I'm quite sure there is nothing I could write which would justify such a long wait... so I hope this does not come as too much of anti-climax.

* * *

><p><span><strong>The Diary of a Somebody<strong>

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Sunday 2****nd**** December**

**11:02 — Home.**

So much for showing the world how it's done.

So bloody much for me having even a modicum of enterprise. A week has now passed since I made my drunken resolve and I've made precisely _no_ headway. In the intervening days, which I've spent racking my brain for inspiration, I've managed only to conclude that I have _no bloody idea what to do._

I'm in dire need of a plan. I need a strategy — some sort of tactical approach, but…

Instead, I seem to have fallen into a pit of intolerable ennui. I'm bloody useless.

And I _am_ going to do this sober; I must. In darker moments, I've been starting to think drink may be the answer… But I _must_ have clarity. If I do get around to making any moves, they _must_ be sincere and intelligible. Let's face it, I've learnt the hard way that intelligibility is definitely not always achievable whilst under the influence. Moreover, I hardly think she would be impressed by a drunken ramble. What self-respecting woman could possibly find an inebriated advance even remotely attractive? Eh?

So, precisely _no_ input from Mr Ogden. There. _That's_ very decisive of me, at least.

**12:34**

But… are there other artificial substances I could utilise? Artificial substances that are, um, more imperceptible than the old booze? I spurned _Felix Felicis_ before on some misguided basis of nobility and honour.

Who needs honour, though? And nobility? Pah! That's what Gryffindors were designed for.

And… she might never find out, so… No harm, no foul, eh?

In other news, I still have no plans for a new abode. I'll be living on the streets if I'm not careful.

Merlin; _how_ will Granger ever be able to resist me?

**Monday 3****rd**** December**

**13:01 — Leaky. Lunchtime.**

Have received Owl from Minerva — she wants to speak to me regarding a 'matter of some importance' and has requested my presence at the Hog's Head tomorrow morning.

I told her I'd see her Wednesday afternoon, and not a moment sooner.

**Wednesday 5****th**** December**

Well, well. Today I have experienced something one might term as luck. As good fortune, even.

It leaves me feeling highly suspicious.

Minerva has granted me the use of her summer home. I didn't even know she had a summer home… But, apparently, she has spent the majority of summer holidays there for the past thirty years.

I never noticed. However, the hard set of her mouth suggested that maybe I should have.

She didn't mention the inspiration behind her offer, however, and I do wonder if Granger has kept her rather more updated with regard to my situation with the Muggles than I have. I'm not really sure I want to know if I'm right or not. Fact is, pride be-damned, I do need somewhere to live. At least now I don't have to go cap in hand to her myself.

'You _are_ coming to the castle for Christmas, Severus?' Minerva had demanded before I could take my leave of her. Same old bloody story every year.

'Er, alas no,' was my smooth reply. 'I regret a prior engagement requires my presence.'

She scoffed so enthusiastically, I almost felt hurt.

'I do believe I just saw a flying pig.'

I really was hurt then.

'I'm not sure I like what you're insinuating, Minerva. Are you calling _me_ a liar?'

'Make sure you're here, Severus. _It's a double celebration_ for the anniversary of Hogwarts' founding, as you know.'

'Oh, no, I can't make it.'

Her face froze, rather unattractively, I must say.

'Don't look at me like that,' I muttered, making for the doors. 'I haven't got the time, nor, in fact, the patience for pointless _parties_.'

'Shall I have your old room in the dungeons made up?' she shouted after me. 'Or would you prefer a suite overlooking the—'

'Are you deaf, woman? _Pointless parties_!'

We had a bit of a stand-off then. I glared. She glared. Everybody glared. But then I had an idea, a great idea (these flashes still come to me, sometimes, despite my advancing age). The scene started playing out brilliantly before me. Not a _pointless party;_ it'd be Christmas. It'd be a Hogwarts celebration of the first order. There'd be drink flowing. I'd be there; Granger'd be there. … God, with such receptive circumstances, it might fall that I'd only have to click my fingers and she'd come running.

Oh, what a terrible thing to say… I should cross that out immediately.

Ha.

**13:12 — Apothecary.**

Been wondering if I should I talk to Minerva about my predicament with Granger. She's a woman, after all, I suppose. I thought she might be able to suggest how I could… Or maybe she could find out it...

But no; potential for excruciating embarrassment, I know, is too great to be borne. Can't do it.

Anyway, she's given me a Portkey to the house I shall inhabit for the foreseeable future, so come the weekend, I will relocate.

My last tie with Granger, then, severed.

Humph.

**Thursday 6****th**** December**

**16:40 — Diagon Alley.**

Bugger.

I have a meeting with a bunch of department bigwigs at the Ministry tomorrow.

There's got to be more to life than this.

Surely?

**Friday 7****th**** December**

**18:40**

Meeting at Ministry was not what I expected at all.

It turns out the Department of Mysteries is being sued by some disgruntled former employee. Of course, I never thought the person chosen to legally represent the department might be bloody Granger, did I? I nearly jumped a mile when she wafted into the meeting chamber. She started greeting us in turn and I could only hope last night's libations weren't still visible in my face.

'Severus,' she said pleasantly, holding out her hand.

I almost forgot how to respond. 'Granger,' I managed to murmur as I took her hand, fervently hoping I'd remember to let go of it.

'I wondered if I might see you here.'

I could only nod, probably looking like a perfect dunderhead. But gah! This wasn't where our first meeting was supposed to occur! It was supposed to be somewhere of my _own_ orchestration, and more importantly, where I would be _prepared_. I'd left the bloody _Felix Felicis_ in the apothecary! Fuck's sake. Nothing ever goes right.

I don't think I even touched a comb to my hair this morning, either.

And is it bad that I barely have any notion of what went on for a large part of this meeting? I'm not even sure what my purpose was in being there, because I spent the majority of time absorbed in a series of ludicrous imaginings where I confessed myself to the lady sitting opposite me. They were ludicrous, because in all of them I was the epitome of the suave and eloquent gentleman. And she, well, she was the definition of a grateful, swooning little maiden.

I then fell into a black depression as I considered the reality of the situation. I'm not suave. I'm, well, _inept_ is the only way to put it. Neither is she a maiden; she's a top-of-the-pile career-woman.

The odds are indelibly stacked against me.

Anyway, I did eventually have cause to prick my ears up and actually listen to what was going on around me. My eyes flew involuntarily to Granger when the name 'Miss Helena Moran' suddenly sounded.

She met my gaze impassively.

Helena Moran was the disgruntled former employee? No bloody wonder Granger had leapt at this opportunity!

Strangely, I felt suddenly rather uneasy about her involvement. I looked at her again. The steely glint in her eye, I'm quite sure, I didn't imagine. Nor the firm set of her lips. Even now, after all this time, she still feels the sting of betrayal keenly. It was obvious in that moment.

And I'm… disappointed.

What would things have been like if she felt as strongly about our parting, as she did about the circumstances of those with her former husband?

One thing's for sure; I wouldn't be sitting her writing this load of tosh.

**19:25**

It occurs to me this was the first time I'd witnessed her at 'work' (well, apart from that time when I got arrested…) I've always known she's a driven, determined character — always game to take up a crusade. And persistent, too; witness her involvement in my housing situation. Surely, then… _Surely_, if she did regret ending things between us… Where is that persistence now?

I sloped away from the meeting as soon as it was over. While she was sorting her parchments into her bag, I escaped.

I just know I won't ever tell her.

I _can't_.

**23:20 — Bed.**

This day has been on a downward spiral from start to finish.

I'd gone into the Leaky after shutting up the shop, intending to drown my not inconsiderable sorrows in a quiet pint. I'd managed three pints before I took out the phial of _Felix Felicis_ and contemplated it before me. I've never actually imbibed this potion for the purpose of personal gain — my inner arrogance has never before allowed it.

So I wondered, then, whether it would be worth giving it a go now; despite my vanity and even after my conclusions of earlier. Would it be worth making a prick of myself one last time?

I really hate how indecisive I've become in later years. Why can't I make a decision anymore and stick to it? Why? I'd make a Hufflepuff look like the model of tenacity.

As it happened, there were a further two pints imbibed before Potter discovered me.

'Snape! Why are you lurking in this shadowy corner, eh?'

I ignored him.

Nevertheless, he sat down. 'Is that what I think it is?'

Five pints is the reason I hadn't flipped that phial out of sight straightaway.

And it must have been that fifth pint that allowed Granger to slip past my lips. My wits were alive enough only to curtail any further drunken mumbles, but it was enough for Potter.

'Snape, mate,' he began. 'This isn't the answer.'

And before I knew what he was about, the bloody bastard had snatched the phial, ripped open the stopper, and jumped to the bar to pour the contents into the slops tray!

I lurched blindly from my seat. 'Potter!' I growled, reaching for his robes. 'That was my only phial! Do you know how long that stuff takes to brew?'

'Calm down—'

'_Calm down_?'

He stumbled backwards into the bar as I tightened my grip, feeling I was about to achieve my longstanding ambition of punching Potter in the chops. Except —

'All right, gents; take it outside.'

A wand had appeared between us. 'Out!' demanded the barman. 'Now.'

Fuming, I reluctantly released Potter (with a shove) and marched outside, breathing in a lungful of sobering, cold air. I considered even then that Potter had probably done me a favour. That didn't mean I appreciated it.

'Snape?' Potter's voice sounded from the doorway. 'I'm going to come out, so… don't kill me.'

'Fuck off.'

'Look mate,' he began, stepping before me. 'This isn't the answer —'

'Potter! For once in your life, will you _just_ —'

'Let me and Ginny help you!'

I paused despite myself, a significant part of me screaming for the speedy return of my pride. It wasn't long in coming.

'Fuck off,' I said, turning on my heel.

There. The new decisive me.

**23:45**

Hmm, actually could it be worth tapping Potter up for some assistance in —

NO!

**Saturday 8****th**** December**

**9:30 — Yorkshire. For the last time.**

Well, this is it. I'm leaving my Yorkshire hell-hole behind for good now. No more will I be able to stand and contemplate my sorry existence against the fitting backdrop of crumbling cliffs and choppy waters.

And after reading that sentence back, it's probably for the best.

Idiot.

**11:00 — Scotland.**

For the love of…

I've arrived. And I've only gone and swapped one desolate hell-hole for another. Instead of a gloomy expanse of choppy water to delight my existence, I now have a vista consisting of misty, bleak mountain-tops. I should have known this would be some ramshackle hut in the middle of nowhere.

Well, it's not exactly a hut, as such, but it _is_ a tiny cottage plonked at the bottom of some god-forsaken Scottish glen.

And it's fucking freezing up here. My God. I was only outside for five minutes and now I'm blue.

I know I've said this before, but: does nothing _ever_ go right?

**Tuesday 11****th**** December**

**20:08 — Scottish hell-hole. Scot-hell-hole-land. **

Was just about to shut up the Apothecary tonight when who should come in? It had been snowing and she shook her cloak free of snowflakes, loosening the scarf around her neck.

'I've just cleaned that floor,' I said pointedly, looking at slush she'd traipsed in and the subsequent watery mess

'Oh!' she exclaimed, looking downwards. 'Um, I'll…' She trailed off with a slow smile. 'Hang on, the floor's filthy, Severus.'

_Filthy_? Cheeky bint.

'What can I do for you?' I asked, wishing I didn't have my grubby overcoat on.

'I know you're closed, but…' She approached the counter. 'Don't suppose I can buy a headache powder, can I?'

'Certainly,' I replied neutrally.

I gave her my best concoction, of course, and declined payment. Gah, I'm a good egg.

I wondered whether I should make some cursory enquiry into the state of health, but, well, it's the same old story; I dithered for too long and the moment went.

'I'd hoped to catch you after the meeting the other day, but, ah, well, I didn't.' She heaved her bag onto the counter. 'Um, I've had confirmation from the Council that they've received the paperwork regarding the house. I'm waiting on the details of the compensation, but that should be resolved shortly.'

I felt a pang of resentment that this was her reason for seeking me out. _Business_.

'Thank you,' I managed to force out, turning my attention the shelf I was tidying before she came in.

She cleared her throat. 'Have you, ah, managed to find alternative arrangements? Because I was thinking that —'

I don't know why I interrupted her so briskly, but I did. 'Yes,' I said. 'Minerva has squared me up.' And now I'll never know what, actually, she was thinking. Idiot.

'Oh… Good; I'm glad.'

Then there was silence, and I wished I had the courage to say something.

'I'd best leave you to it, then. Good night.'

'Good night.' It came out so tightly, I think I might actually have managed to sound like an indignant schoolboy.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Anyway, the denouement to this little interlude was not quite as desperate as it might have been. She was halfway to the door when she paused and looked back. 'Shall I see you at Hogwarts, for the party?'

This was precisely the moment to practice being suave. But all I seem to be able to manage is being aloof; and aloofness, does not, unfortunately, equate suavity. I know, because I've checked the dictionary.

'Yes,' I said blankly, briefly meeting her eyes.

I half expected to see some mark of annoyance in her expression, or worse, a reciprocal hint of indifference. Except, I'm pretty sure what I did see was a rather gauging look.

'Good,' she finally said, before disappearing out into the street.

And two hours later, I'm still here trying to work out what significance may be inferred in that one word 'good'. I've now replayed it interminably, and have coloured it with so much meaning that, what she probably meant as a polite acknowledgement, I've managed to morph into a declaration of undying devotion, followed by a determined leap over the counter, whereby she grabs hold of —

All right; I _know_ I'm exaggerating now.

**Friday 14****th**** December**

**10:52 — Work _(should_ be working)**

So, it is now however many days it is since I decided I'm a man who is in… Well, a man who has been unfortunately compromised in the rather softer matters…

And I still have no plan. There are only days, too, till I go to Hogwarts.

Felix has gone by the wayside. So, what next? Maybe, I could write of my feelings? That at least gets me over the hurdle of having to make some sort of verbal sense. I could…

Yes, I'll write of my feelings to her. Forget articulation — that way lies only despair and ruin. Instead, I shall turn to inscription. Bloody marvellous idea. Don't know why it's taken me so long to think of it.

Wait… Wait a minute.

Christ, should I send her my diary? Should I _Iet_ her read my diary?

My God. I can't believe I haven't thought of this before! How utterly romantic a gesture would that be? How could she resist that? My diary! My diary guarding all my thoughts and feelings of the time we were together! I can see it now… I could wrap it up as a Christmas present… She'll be stunned by such an open gesture. And she'll understand it, won't she? She'll understand what it will have taken for me to allow her a glimpse of me — the inner me?

**Midday.**

Forget it. I can't give it to her.

I've just read back through some of the entries I wrote, and I fear the only feeling she might be left with upon completion of the diary is, actually, offence.

Possibly contempt, as well.

And maybe even the idea that she's cavorted with a madman!

Humph.

**12:24**

I'm a bit relieved, really; wasn't a good idea at all.

**13:30**

Perhaps this pointless party at Hogwarts really will be the reckoning. It's the only place I'm likely to encounter her in the near future. Maybe I'll give myself an ultimatum (is it possible to have an Unbreakable Vow with oneself?) that the moment I leave Hogwarts, if Granger is not in tow, I will forget this nonsense once and for all.

The New Year will be approaching, and so I shall endeavour to ensure it is also a New Me; unshackled and unfettered by pesky women.

Hah.

**Sunday 16th December.**

Oh for fuck's sake. I'm snowed in up in his hell-hole.

I hope to God I haven't run out of Floo Powder.

Honestly, I could die up here and no one would notice.

_Again_.

**17:45**

I'm supposed to attend another meeting at the Ministry regarding Miss Moran on Tuesday. What's the point?

I'm not sure I want to see Granger yet. An altercation with her might sabotage my as of yet non-existent plan to get her back.

Am I not the sorriest excuse for a man that ever walked the earth?

**Tuesday 18th December**

**18:45 — Leaky. Two pints the better.**

Well, well.

Things appear to have escalated somewhat… At least, I think they have. Wouldn't be the first time I've entirely misread a situation, however.

I'd concluded my business in the Department of Mysteries and was headed for the lifts when who should come rushing out? She looked a bit flustered, her wand clutched in one hand, while the other pressed several folders and scrolls to her chest.

'Oh! Hello,' she greeted brightly. 'Aren't you coming to the meeting?' She seemed to survey the presence of my cloak. 'We're going to be late.'

She was referring to the meeting regarding the ongoing feud between the Ministry and Miss Moran.

'No, I shan't be attending.' I stepped aside to allow her to continue her flurry to the chamber, but she didn't move. 'Granger, what is it to me if Miss Moran is suing the Ministry?' I clarified. 'Good luck to her, I say.'

I don't know what made me add that at the end. I don't know why I had to sound so antagonistic. If I choose to examine it closely, however, I can come up with one reason.

To my surprise, I saw her cheeks flush floridly.

'Oh, I… You oversaw part of her employment, so —'

'I had nothing to do with her eventual dismissal.'

'Yes, but I thought you may be able to assist in building the case against her.'

She was suddenly so animated, and the determination visible in her face unsettled me, despite myself. 'For Merlin's sake, she's just a nobody with a chip on her shoulder. It's a bit bloody small fry to the stuff you usually work on.'

It was a pulse of spite that forced the next words from me.

'Vengeance isn't a good look on you, Granger.'

In the silence that followed, I felt I had no choice but to adopt an indifferent air. The success of which I'm not sure I want to contemplate, because when I caught sight of her still flushed face and the lip between her teeth, I wished to heaven I'd kept my gob shut. I felt sure she would storm off, exasperated by my grumpiness.

On the contrary, she stayed put. 'It's not _vengeance_,' she muttered darkly.

'Very well.'

'It's not!' she hissed.

'Why? When you're clearly wasting your time playing tit for tat? I don't know what you think you have to prove to her. I still stand by what I said before; she did you a favour, as far as—'

'I don't give a _shit_ about Moran, all right?'

The vehemence in her raised voice rather took me aback. More than that, her wand had become raised between us in her pique.

'All right?' she repeated firmly.

I simply nodded.

She seemed to take note of the fact her wand was pointed at me, and she coughed apologetically. 'Good.' And then she actually had the temerity to push her wand forward and poke me with it! 'Good,' she said again, with a tug at the corner of her mouth, 'That's all right, then.' With that, she took off down the corridor.

How dare she jab me with her wand!

**19:15 — Three pints.**

So… why did she get involved in the Moran case, if not for revenge?

It's not… Couldn't be because…

No… There was no reason she should expect me to be there, was there? She —

Oh.

She said:

'_Yes, but I thought you would be able to assist in building the case against her.'_

Did she _ask_ for my presence?

Bloody hell. There's a right turn up for the books.

**19:30**

Can't get too carried away.

I'm still likely to be completely wrong about this.

**Friday 20th December**

Potter accosted me in the canteen today. Business must be slow in the Auror Office — I never see him out in the real world doing anything remotely productive. He's turned into a bloody quill-pusher (a bit like me).

He was conspicuous today by his subdued manner. Indeed, beyond a perfunctory greeting, he said nothing else. I would have left it there, except every now and again he would look at me fleetingly.

'Spit it out, for Merlin's sake.'

'Eh?'

'Potter, you look fit to burst.'

'Oh, it's nothing; it doesn't matter… Well, it does matter, I suppose. At least, I think it does—'

I made to stand. 'Look, I'm going—'

'Wait!' he urged, before I could stand up. 'It's… It's about Hermione.'

My expression must have remained impassive, but my insides did squirm a fraction, it must be said. Then his face fell. 'I said I wouldn't say anything...'

'About what?' I prompted.

He put his hand through his hair. 'Sorry, mate, I can't. I shouldn't have said anything...'

'Potter...'

'No; it's nothing.'

_'Potter...'_

'No don't do that!'

He actually lurched away from the table with his hand over his eyes. Haha!

**14:30**

I'm still curious about what the git wanted, though.

**Sunday 22nd December**

Tonight's the night, as they say. My moment of reckoning.

Someone with sense might have a strategy ready to employ, but, alas, I've opted to 'wing it'. This is the strategy of a former triple-agent, for crying out loud.

Fully expect it to be disaster of the first order.

Will have a drink before leaving, methinks. Just a small one. It is rather cold outside, after all.

**Monday 23rd December**

**12:35 — Not the Scottish hell-hole (!)**

Apparently, I wasn't the only one aware that last night was _the_ night. I arrived into the Great Hall without fanfare and headed straight for the bar (where else?). However, from there on in, I couldn't get a moment's peace. I was, surreptitiously, mind you, looking through the faces around me for Granger when Minerva initially spotted me.

'She's over there,' she said with precisely no preamble whatsoever.

'Who's she?' I demanded without amusement.

She blinked. 'You know.'

'Minerva, if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times; if I wanted your help, I'd ask for it.'

'No, you wouldn't.'

'Yes, I would.'

She frowned. 'Severus, right now you'd be living under a piece of tarpaulin in Diagon Alley if I hadn't taken it upon myself to _offer_ you my assistance. Moreover, if every time you needed help and I waited for you to ask for it, I'd _still_ be waiting when they're burying me in my box! You don't imagine poor old Hermione is going to wait that long for you to get a grip on that stubborn pride of yours, do you?'

I would have gaped, were I capable of making such an undignified expression. Where the hell had all this come from?

'_Cease_ _meddling_,' I hissed at her.

I turned my back on her, but it failed to work.

'We were thinking —'

'_We_?' I spat, spinning back around.

Her expression clouded. 'Er, I, I've been thinking…'

I glanced in the direction from which she'd come and saw a gaggle of what can only be described as old hags watching us. On catching my appraisal they jumped apart as if I'd hexed them. Pomfrey's flinch was particularly rewarding, I must say.

'What have you done, Minerva?' I hissed.

'Nothing!'

She actually had the temerity then to take hold of my arm and pull me to one side. 'People will talk, Minerva,' I said, observing our shadowy corner.

'Will you be serious?' she huffed. 'I just wanted to say that... I did think that when things went sour between yourself and Hermione, I thought it typical of, you know, a young woman on the rebound looking for a, what do they call it?, a bit of rough.'

_Bit of rough? _The effrontery!

She shrugged. 'I think we all, deep down, would like a —'

'Minerva! Your point?' _Merlin_.

'Oh, yes, well, I just hope you will be able to let bygones be bygones, Severus.'

And with that cryptic little sentence, she swept off into the sea of people. As I watched her go, I did wonder if she'd decided to make a day of it and had started on the Scotch rather early. She has been known for it.

I then set about completing my previous diversion, and left alone, I did finally spot her. She was sitting a table with afew of her friends. She looked so, well, lovely, that I lost any smidge of confidence that I might have had. So instead of going over to her, I went back to the bar! Gah!

I was standing there on my second (third) whisky, wondering whether to finally go over and approach her, or whether I'd now left it too late, in which case she might be a bit pissed off. And then I thought, well, what if she hasn't even noticed that I'm here? Why hasn't she bothered to come and speak to me? That was when my vexatious inner ramblings were, rather mercifully, interrupted by the sudden presence of one Ginevra Potter.

'Would you care to dance, Professor Snape?' she announced.

I didn't know where to look!

'Mrs Potter…' I began, probably the only forty-something man in the world managing to appear reluctant at having to take a twenty-something woman in his arms.

'Excellent, Professor.' She stepped forward with her hand held out, and I, well, I stepped back.

'Merlin; _must_ you call me, Professor?'

'Ah, sorry; but you'll always be Professor Snape to me.' Her brief look of chagrin did nothing for my ripple of mortification.

She dropped her hand and suddenly all pretence was over. 'Listen, you must go over and speak to her.'

Not again! 'And say what?' I hissed. I can't abide taking orders! Bit ironic, really…

'Anything! Things haven't been easy for her of late, with her family, and so on. I'm determined she is going to have a good night —'

'Well I hardly think my presence would be conducive to that,' I interrupted, a tad too bitterly, perhaps, because she stilled. 'Is this what you and Potter have been cooking up between you? I don't know why you —'

'Look, if _you_ don't approach her…' she said, plainly. 'Someone else will'.

She turned her head to look where Granger was sat. So I did too. There was only the Lovegood girl left with her, now. And Ginevra was right. There were umpteen eligible males in the room, all far younger and far more deserving than me. What if someone got there before me? What if someone monopolised her attention all night, what then? Hell, I could even see Weasley giving her furtive glances every now and again, as if also debating his chances…

As if, in the context of merriment and good cheer, he was _also_ contemplating the possibility of giving it One Last Chance.

My throat dried up when, even from across the room, I could see Weasley reach some sort of inner resolve. He started walking purposefully, striding even, towards his former wife and I was paralysed, ridiculously, with muted horror. He meandered through the tables and if I had had even the wherewithal to _run_, I would not have reached her before he did.

And then… Then he just stopped abruptly, as if he'd walked smack bang into a brick wall. He looked around slowly, frowning to himself as if confused. Then he wandered off, swaying slightly, in the opposite direction.

Ginevra was putting her wand away. 'He won't be Confounded for too long, mind.'

On reflection, I think it was probably one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.

I could really have done with another snifter before advancing on my quarry, but, alas, there was no time.

I went for it. I had to go for it. With no idea of what I was going to do, mind. Actually, I knew the first thing I should do. I glared at Lovegood on arrival, and when she stood up, I knew she'd got the message loud and clear.

My attentions then turned to the lady with her back to me. 'Granger?' I barked, a bit too stridently, perhaps. 'Is there a reason you're sitting there so determinedly? You're starting to make the place look untidy.'

Oh God.

I could have died. Why do I say these things, eh?

She turned rather slowly, so I reckoned on being safe from a hex, at least. And when I saw her expression, I could see she was hiding a smirk. Definitely safe from physical attack, then.

'I'm waiting for a nice gentlewizard to come along… Tell me, do you know of any?'

Ouch.

I sat down in Lovegood's vacated chair. 'Think I might have passed a few on my way here, yes.'

She laughed then; a bright, clear laugh.

'I'm yet to feel the frivolous mood, if I'm honest, Severus,' she said, after a moment.

I sent a sideways glance at the nearly empty wine bottle perched in front of her. 'But not entirely immune to its trappings, I fancy.'

Her jaw fell open. 'Oi! I didn't drink that all by myself!

'You don't have to explain yourself to me, Granger.'

She sighed softly, but didn't speak straight away. 'Must you call me 'Granger' all the time?'

A hundred and one witty responses flew to mind at that, but she looked so earnest and, yes, lovely, that I forced myself to be serious. 'What would you have me call you?'

Bit of a pointless question, I know. With hindsight, however, I think I'd developed a bit of an aversion to saying her name aloud. Her eyes fell to her lap and she appeared to be struggling with what she wanted to say. Had she also developed a fear of the name 'Hermione'? I wondered dully.

'Actually, I've been thinking a lot lately. I, um, I would like…' She frowned mildly and began again. 'There was a time when you would have, ah, called me your, um…'

She broke off looking noticeably terrified, as I probably did too. 'I wish I had drunk that bottle now,' she muttered under her breath.

'And then you should be keeled over this table, of little use to anyone... my dear.'

Her head snapped up and she smiled widely. I nearly bloody smiled too. Nearly.

'Look, what I'm trying to say, badly, is that I would give anything to —'

She didn't get to finish her sentence, because Hagrid, bloody _Hagrid_, blustered in, sticking his huge meaty paw between us, saying ''Ermione! Will yer do me the honour?'

I couldn't believe it. I felt like I'd just taken a bludger to the guts. And I thought '_Ermione_ looked like she might pass out at any moment, too.

'Hagrid,' she managed weakly. 'Perhaps, later —'

She looked at me helplessly. I thought it high time I started practicing chivalry, so I got to my feet and took Hagrid by the arm. 'Hagrid,' I said. 'Minerva is looking for you. She was hoping you might take a few turns around the floor with her.'

'Really?'

I nodded and he rubbed his hands together.

As we watched his retreating bulk, Granger bit her lip. 'Severus, you know Minerva was incapacitated for three weeks the last time she danced with Hagrid?'

'Precisely.'

Anticipating a note of reproach from her, I found the following sentence escaped without much forethought. 'You do realise Minerva and her cronies probably have a betting pool on tonight's festivities? I can't be the only one who has had to undergo none to subtle prodding tonight.'

'What do you mean?'

I gave her a pointed look.

Her cheeks coloured and she clasped her hands together. 'Oh.' In time, she also stood and stepped a bit closer to me. 'It, um, well, it might interest you know that I have money riding on this, too.'

I nearly gaped again.

'We all need a little incentive, after all.' She smirked.

'I had no idea you could be so mercenary.' I quite like it.

She nodded to herself. 'Well, have you now worked out why I'm really hanging around the Department of Mysteries?'

I frowned ponderously. 'Surely the coffee can't be _that_ good down there, can it?'

For a moment, she simply stared. Then she put her hands to her face and laughed; cackled, even. As her laughter subsided, she put a hand to wipe to tears from her eyes, and I wondered, not for the first time, if she might be a little unhinged.

'You always make me laugh,' she said, after a moment.

'I don't know why. I was being serious.'

Her eyes suddenly drifted past me and she frowned. 'What the hell is Ron doing? Is he all right?'

Ginerva's _Confundus_ must have been rather strong.

'Er, shall we dance?' I asked suddenly.

'Severus, what have you done?'

'Ah! I can say this with complete conviction: _nothing_. Not my fault he's mentally challenged, is it?' I shrugged and stepped towards the dancefloor. 'Not my fault he's challenged full stop, in fact.'

I became quickly aware that she wasn't following and I tensed inwardly with disappointment. 'I'll only ask once, you know.' Christ; that was awfully presumptuous of me. Still can't believe I said it.

'I don't think I want to dance.'

That shot an arrow through my ego, I can tell you! Oh, I thought. Oh, fuck. Oh, bugger. Oh, shit. I've cocked up big time. What was I supposed to do now? I felt I must have looked like a right numpty just standing there.

'This has gone on for too long now.'

I looked at her. 'Sorry?'

She moved closer to me and self-consciously folded her arms across her stomach, incidentally affording me a rather nice view of her... Well, it wouldn't be right for me to transcribe it here. 'I _know_ you can do better than a silly little girl… which is what I think I've been, at times.' She shrugged her shoulders. 'But I am sorry.'

I was momentarily taken aback. I had to say something. Do something. Anything! Surely, surely, this was it? The time for me to say something meaningful and sincere?

But all I managed was 'I know.' Merlin's arse.

'Could we have another —'

She was interrupted by a loud shriek from across the hall, and I turned to see Minerva in a chair clutching her foot as Hagrid looked on awkwardly.

'Another what?' I prompted quickly, cursing them both.

'Well, another crack at it,' she blurted out, blushing. Then her body swivelled slightly and she hissed, 'Bugger, I think Ron's making his way over, now.'

What was I supposed to do, eh? I'd been waiting for this moment and my God had it been a long time in coming. Automatically, I took hold of her arm. 'Shall we have a crack at it now?'

'Now?' Her eyebrows lifted and her lips twitched. 'What, leave?'

'I don't know about you, but I think I've got what I came for.' And only thirty minutes in, too! My efficiency, it appears, knows no bounds!

Her face softened at my words. Haha! I've still got it!

However, Weasley's voice suddenly sounded behind us. 'Oi! Snape! Did you hex me again?'

'Quick, let's go!' Her fingers tugged at my sleeve and then she was heading briskly towards the doors.

Put it this way, I didn't need telling twice. We slipped through the doors, through the Entrance Hall, and outside. 'Come on,' she encouraged with a laugh. We rushed down the steps and onto the grass. I think I could have floated down the grounds, but unfortunately reality was not quite so whimsical. She pulled up suddenly. 'Wait!' she called, with a laugh. 'I can't go that fast in these shoes!'

With a flick of my wand, the shoes were no longer an issue. What subsequently was an issue, however, was that the grass was wet with dew. She yelped.

'Remind me never to make a quick getaway with you ever again,' I grumbled, grabbing her hand and spelling her feet against the grass. 'There; who said romance is dead?'

Soon, she'd pulled up again. 'Oh!'

'What _now_?' I demanded.

'We can't leave yet — there's a _Hogwarts:_ _A_ _History_ skit being performed later on.'

I simply stared.

'We'd better go back.'

Again, I stared; flabbergasted. 'A skit?' I managed weakly.

And then she burst out laughing — bent double almost, she found herself that funny. 'Your face!' she choked out.

'In fairness to me, that_ is_ the sort of tedium you would probably enjoy.'

She heaved an amused sigh and we continued onwards so that we might Apparate. 'True,' she agreed, 'but not tonight...'

Dear me.

'You haven't seen my Scottish hell-hole yet, have you?' I took her arm, but faltered when I saw the look on her face. It was decidedly unsure all of a sudden..

'Um...'

Oh God, she's changed her mind, already, I thought. We'd hadn't even managed to make it last five minutes this time.

'Isn't it Professor McGonagall's hell-hole?'

'Yes.'

She nodded. 'Perhaps we should go to mine... ' She bit her lip as if to hide a smile. 'It's just a bit weird, you know, going back to my former Head of House's cottage with my former Potions master.'

Oh God.

I think I'm scarred for life.

**15:42**

We went for a walk this afternoon. The past six months haven't changed her. As we walked alongside the river, I had to endure a homily on the formation of meander bends and oxbow lakes. Honestly, what the deuce is it to me if a point bar has formed or not? Eh?

Still, being that we're sort of back at the start again, I had to crank up the enthusiasm. I even posed a few questions, because there's nothing she likes better than expounding.

And, oh all right, I like listening — I must do. There. I've admitted it.

Thankfully, when seemingly exhausted by her own breadth of knowledge, she changed the subject. Except, she changed it to more personal matters.

She sighed, squeezing my arm where she held it. 'I'm sorry that I never said anything sooner, but I was convinced you'd never give me a second chance.'

On reflection, I think I preferred the geology lesson.

'That's funny… considering I've always prided myself for having a notoriously forgiving nature.'

She conceded a smile. 'But do you forgive me, though?' she asked uncertainly.

Well, really, I can't condemn her, can I? I'm in no doubt that my standoffish ways have played no small part in this debacle. The whole point was that she might think I didn't need or want her, but she found the courage to speak out anyway, eventually; what have _I_ done?

What have _I_ said? Sod all — like a great useless lump.

Trouble was nothing poetic would spring to mind then, either. I scanned around, hoping inspiration might hit. There was nothing.

'Look if you can't —'

'Give me a minute.'

She fell silent and I tamped down any embarrassment I felt. 'I'm sure you'll understand when I say the time we spent together was the best time of my life, that I say it without exaggeration or affectation. Therefore, I could not truly ever regret it.'

Well, there's no other way to put it; she flung herself at me. I thought last night that she might have put on a few pounds since last we were thus engaged, and now I'm convinced of it. This is something I'm quite certain I shouldn't ever mention aloud, however. I should probably place extra special spells on this page too, just in case.

'Regardless of what happened in the past,' I continued, feeling quite in my stride, 'and in spite of my perpetual confusion as to why you bothered with me in the first place, much _more_ that you would come back for seconds, I'm not about to sniff at the opportunity you present — not when the benefits can be quite, ah, considerable.'

I blatantly surveyed her.

She let out an offended laugh. 'Cheek!'

She wanted honesty, didn't she? I can't bloody win!

**Wednesday 24th December**

Granger and I are spending Christmas together. Who would have thought? I've landed on my feet once more. It's finally resolved after six months of pathetic ramblings and posturing.

And it is me she's decided she wants. Poor, deluded girl.

I can't wait to bump into Weasley.

Minerva Owled me from the Hospital Wing, complaining that I could have at least have had the decency to inform her of my hasty exit from Hogwarts. I simply replied that decency, sadly, wasn't in my repertoire, and that I fail to see how she hasn't recognised this yet.

I will miss the elves' Christmas dinner, though, it must be said.

Perhaps, in the spirit of new beginnings and optimism, I should take it upon myself to prepare a sumptuous feast? Granger... Hermione... will no doubt be pleased at that.

**12:45**

She actually laughed in my face.

Humph.

**Sunday 28th December**

Several days have passed since I last put pen to paper. I wonder why? Is the desire to chronicle my life waning, finally? I haven't yet acquired a replacement for January, when I shall be a year older, but very likely none the wiser. Perhaps I should give it up? Or perhaps I shouldn't.

Who else can I talk to, though? Not as though I have a bevy of friends I can relate to.

Merlin; how sorry is that?

Things between Granger and myself seem to be running smoothly. But, well, it's only been a few days, and on past form how the fuck would I know if they were not running smoothly or not? Still, I know what I have to lose this time around. I shall endeavour to manage my more obtuse moments with better efficiency, and maybe this time next year I will be in a position to congratulate myself on a job well done. And her too. At least I can now venture to suggest she's as obtuse as me, at times.

God; what a pair.

So, I shall have to seal this diary shortly and send it away for safekeeping, so that she might never, ever, discover what I'm really like. I had a bit of a scare this morning regarding this very subject. The sound of a light scratching noise awoke me. I knew straight away it was the noise of a quill on parchment, so I cracked open an eye only to see my beloved scribbling in what _very_ much looked to be…

I shot up off the pillow, causing her to shriek loudly with fright. 'That better not be mine!'

'It's _my_ diary!' she cried, hugging it protectively to her chest.

I was aghast. I still am. A _diary_? Since when? Why would _she_ keep a diary?

She told me she'd bought herself one at the same time she'd bought mine. That was last year! I wondered what she'd written in it. What has she said about me, I thought, horrified.

'You wouldn't have a problem with me recording the events of my day, would you, Severus? After all, _you_ were the inspiration for it.' She smiled sweetly.

'Er, of course not, my dear.'

'Good.'

I settled back down with a shrug and examined my fingernails. 'Actually, I'm probably going to pack it in for next year. I don't know why I waste so much time writing in it, anyway — bit pretentious, really, when you think about it.'

I sniffed and reached for the _Practical Potioneer,_ which was at my bedside.

'Severus?'

'Yes?'

'It's not really my diary.'

I felt my body relax.

Oh.

Oh thank the Lord.

FIN

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><p>AN: Well, there we go. Once again, I'm sorry it took so long. Thank you very much for reading, and special thanks to those who have reviewed and messaged spurring me on to finish this. I hope you will have enjoyed it : )<p> 


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